Do You Trust Me?
by Prynesque
Summary: HD Slash: Following Voldemort's downfall, Harry and Draco return for their seventh year at Hogwarts. They discover that not everything in this world is black and white, and in each other, they find danger, excitement and the thrill of being alive.
1. Chapter One

Title: Do You Trust Me?  
Author: Prynesque  
Genre: Yaoi/slash, romance, angst  
Pairing: Harry/Draco  
Rated: R  
Warnings: Potential (though unintended) OOC, some swearing, slash, alternating POV, possible Australian-isms.  
Feedback: Hell yeah? What I'm trying to say is that if you feel the urge to review, please indulge it. I don't even care what you say. Good, bad, it's all the same to me – just so long as I get to hear from you.  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy… they are copywrited to someone else. They are being used without permission and no money is being made. I reiterate: they aren't mine (and if you think they are you should probably take this opportunity to get your head checked). However, this story is mine and mine alone, and if you so much as think of nicking any part of it, I'll hunt you down and set my demon kitty cat on you (be afraid, be very afraid).  
Notes: This story is set following the downfall of Volemort in Harry and Draco's final year at Hogwarts. This story is also slash (or yaoi or whatever you want to call it), so if you don't like that… well, bugger off and come back when you have some taste!

**Author's Notes: Hey all, this is my first foray into the world of writing HP fanfiction, though I have been a long time observer. So, please be gentle. Be warned there is a lot of background information in this chapter and most of it is fairly inconsequential. This story does not focus on Volemort and the War, but rather on the relationship between Harry and Draco in the aftermath. Anyway, let me know what you think.**

**.oO0Oo. signals a change of POV.**

* * *

**Do You Trust Me?**

Chapter One:

It was a dreary evening in late August. The drizzle had set in around mid-morning and by dusk the grey streets of London were covered in a slick sheen of water.

This particular street was one of no importance and up and down it people were scurrying back to their homes, holding newspapers above their heads in a vain attempt to shelter themselves from the crisp droplets of water.

A young man stood on the foot path as the light rain fell down around him. He was wearing jeans and a sweater and, at first glance, everything about him screamed 'ordinary'. He was the sort of person that you wouldn't look twice at when you were busy trying to get home out of the rain.

He was standing before an inconspicuous building, staring at the doorway as though trying to work up the courage to walk through it. It was a building that only he seemed to see.

A steady stream of damp workers bustled around him, their eyes fixed on the grubby pavement beneath their feet. Every so often one of them would glance up as they passed the young man, but their eyes would slide from the book store on one side to the record shop on the other. Only the unsettlingly green eyes of this young man were trained on the dirty pub that lay before him.

Harry Potter pushed his bedraggled fringe out of his eyes and a couple of drops of rain trickled down the strange lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead, tracing the faint white line; it was, by no means, as visible as it had once been, and now was only noticeable to those who were purposely looking for it. The water dripped down his glasses and then down his nose and chin before disappearing into the collar of his sweater.

He had been standing in the misty rain for the past five minutes. The rest of his party had hurried into the Leaky Cauldron, unaware of his reluctance to follow.

Harry wasn't particularly fond of standing in the rain and nor was he particularly afraid to enter the dingy pub, but for some strange reason he couldn't bring himself to step forwards and open the door.

Outside on this poorly lit London street, he was nobody. The strangers that swerved around him didn't give him a passing glance; they barely even saw him. He relished the feeling of anonymity knowing full well that when he did finally take that next step over the threshold, the delicious feeling of peace would instantly evaporate.

Harry Potter was no stranger to feelings of complete insignificance. He had grown up believing that he was nobody, that he was nothing special. So when he was suddenly thrust into the limelight on his eleven birthday he had had no idea how he should react.

Now, at 19 years of age, he was still in the dark.

In the beginning he had felt nothing but relief and joy at being rescued from his routine Muggle life and brought into the whirlwind of excitement and newness that was the Wizarding world. He soon discovered that if the Muggle world had regarded him with distaste and disregard, then this new world was the complete opposite.

At first he was overwhelmed and shy about his newfound fame. But as the years progressed he had grown to hate it; the way he was revered for something he couldn't even remember; the way he couldn't walk down a school corridor or down Diagon Alley without those around him hurrying out of his way, their eyes flickering automatically to the scar on his forehead; the way no one seemed to be able to look past that scar and the story that accompanied it; the way every single aspect of his life had been planned for him regardless of his wants and needs; the way he was handed this destiny and then pushed off to fulfil it.

But being the person he was, he kept all of these feelings within him. He played the role that was expected of him. He became Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and when Dumbledore told him to jump, his reply was always 'How high?'

From the moment the Hogwarts Headmaster had sent out his Gamekeeper to fetch Harry, a chain of events had been set in motion… a chain that brought him right to this very moment.

Throughout his early school years he had managed to find himself in more than one life-threatening situation. And every time he came out the victor, more by luck than anything else. And with these victories his reputation and status grew.

When Lord Voldemort, the most powerful Dark Wizard of the age, had risen again at the end of his fourth year at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, his destiny suddenly came rushing up to meet him whether he was ready for it or not.

His fifth year had been a blur of confusion, frustration and inexplicable anger. It ended with heart ache and pain and after that moment in the Department of Mysteries he vowed to bury the petulant adolescent Harry forever, to be rid of the recklessness that had lead to Sirius' death.

The Harry that returned to Hogwarts for his sixth year was more mature and more responsible. He was still angry, still frustrated and still overcome with grief, but he held it in and his sixth year was consumed by frantic training as he was hurriedly prepared for a war that he didn't want to fight but would nonetheless.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was closed down at the beginning of Harry's seventh year. Voldemort's followers had attacked the unsuspecting castle; the Death Eaters ransacked the entire school, leaving it in ruins, and the students of Hogwarts fled back to their families.

The Death Eaters had targeted the Ministry of Magic simultaneously. That was the beginning of the war and the wizarding world was plunged into chaos.

Most of the wizarding population retreated into hiding, securing themselves and their families away behind barricades and wards, while others fled to the continent or America to watch the progression of the war from a safe distance.

A dedicated few rallied around the Ministry and a resistance movement known as the Order of the Phoenix, and fighting broke out across the country.

Harry was trotted out to fight on numerous occasions; the Hero of the Wizarding World leading his troops into battle. He had been given a heavy burden for one so young, just barely seventeen, and it took all his strength just to stay standing, just to keep the cracks from appearing in his façade.

There had been a moment when he thought it was all over. Captured by Death Eaters and tortured for their own sadistic pleasure, he felt the life draining out of him and the blackness consuming him.

His rescue was something that still haunted his dreams; a mysterious saviour that delivered him to safety and then disappeared. His memories of that night were patchy at best. He was assaulted by vivid images and recollections during disturbed dreams, but when he awoke the memories slipped away from him no matter how hard he fought to keep them, like trying to hold water in his hands.

He remembered a voice, familiar yet distant, but not the words it spoke. He remembered a broomstick ride, rough and hasty, but neither the origin nor the destination of this dramatic flight. He remembered pain and fear, but also something calm and grounding. He remembered waking in one of the cluttered rooms at 12 Grimmauld Place with Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore hovering over him, proclaiming him to be alive and safe. But that was all.

On several occasions he had tried to corner the illusive Potions Master and question him about that night, but every time Snape refused and the stubborn-look in those dark, narrow eyes told Harry that he would gain little information from that quarter.

After the night of Harry's rescue, the pace of the war escalated rapidly. Whole families disappeared and as the scuffles between the opposing forces grew more heated, the list of injuries and deaths grew exponentially.

Most of the victims weren't personally known to Harry but he still felt their deaths immeasurably, and in the darkness of night he still blamed himself.

The final battle had come just as February dawned, only a few months ago; it was three and a half years after Voldemort's rebirth.

On an eerily calm night, Light and Dark had met on an even playing field. Like his earlier traumatic experience, Harry only had a rather hazy memory of his meeting with Voldemort. He suspected that his mind had just blocked out the details of that night and that sooner or later they would come back to torment him, but in the meantime he was perfectly happy to live in clouded ignorance.

He didn't really know how he'd managed to survive the encounter. He remembered Voldemort's crazed red eyes burning through him, rooting him to the spot. He remembered Dumbledore standing beside him as the curses flew around them. He remembered casting the spell he had been taught; the spell to destroy every fibre of a being right down to the soul. He remembered watching Voldemort's pale skeletal body crumbling in on itself. He remembered the shrieks of the Death Eaters as their master fell. He remembered turning around, his eyes casting over the battlefield. He remembered Mr Weasley and Bill rushing to his side as he sank to his knees. And he remembered looking into the hollow, dead eyes of people he had once known… Mad-Eye Moody, Professor Sinastra, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Nymphadora Tonks, Penelope Clearwater, Roger Davis, Mundungus Fletcher, Albus Dumbledore.

For a final battle it had been relatively short and the loss of life was unexpectedly minimal for the Order of the Phoenix, though at the time it hadn't felt like that. The Death Eaters had not faired so well; a great many were killed as they tried to flee the scene after their leader perished.

The Ministry of Magic were still trying to round up the remains of the Dark Lord's followers. It had implemented harsh measures to ensure that no Death Eater slipped under their radar. Veriteserum was used extensively and the Aurors were once again given permission to kill rather than capture, if necessary.

But for the rest of the wizarding world, the war was over and peace and safety reigned again. Six months later, the celebrations were still going. Harry was declared the Saviour of the Wizarding World yet again and underground parties across Britain toasted his victory, "To the Boy-Who-Lived", just as they had done all those years ago.

Harry himself was caught up in these celebrations as well. His closest friends, his only true family, had swept him up with a mixture of relief and happiness as well as regret and loss. Tears were shed for those who had been lost, but in the end the atmosphere around them was of victory.

The smiles on the faces around him were lit up from within as they joyously proclaimed the war over. Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys, Lupin, Mrs Figg, Professor McGonagall and the rest of the Order had gathered around Harry and he was overwhelmed by hugs, pats on the back and congratulations.

And Harry wanted desperately to join in their celebrations but all he felt inside was numb. He had expected to feel relieved and glad. He had expected to feel something… anything. But he didn't.

Once, he had tried to explain this to Ron and Hermione, but they hadn't understood. All they knew was that the war was over; they told Harry that he needed to move on, and although he knew they were right he was at a loss as to how to go about that.

And as the weeks and then months passed it seemed like he was the only one in the world that hadn't managed to deal with the aftermath of the war. Even those who had lost their dearest friends, relatives, lovers still managed to move beyond their grief. And in the end he supposed that was the problem. Everyone else grieved and then when they had cried all their tears, they got up and continued with their lives.

But Harry couldn't do that. He was trapped in the depths of emptiness; he couldn't grieve and he couldn't move on because he simply wasn't able to feel anything.

When Mrs Weasley or Hermione or Ron or Remus Lupin came to him and told him that they were proud him, that he was brave, he accepted it a well-trained smile and laugh, but it was all meaningless. He didn't feel like a hero. He didn't feel brave or victorious. He wondered why he felt so empty. He wondered how he could fix this. But most of all he wondered why no one around him seemed to realise what he was feeling, why no one seemed to understand.

He knew he could never tell anyone; he knew he couldn't bring them down with him. So he suffered in silence, a smile plastered on his face but a hollow look in his eyes.

And the rain continued to fall down on him.

A faceless stranger brushed passed him and the nudge jolted Harry out of his thoughts. He wanted to stay in this moment forever, lost in obscurity on a darkening Muggle street. But a more logical part of his brain told him that if he didn't go inside soon either one of the Weasleys would appear to investigate his whereabouts or he would catch a cold… probably both.

So, he stepped forwards and grasped the tarnished brass door handle, pushing forwards.

A wave of warm, stale, smoky air rushed forward to meet him as he entered the dark, shabby pub. The Leaky Cauldron was busy, full to the brim with wizards and witches seeking a stiff drink and shelter from the rain. The indecipherable babble of conversations whirled around him as his eyes searched the mass of bodies for the Weasleys and Hermione.

"Harry!" a voice called from near the bar. Ron was waving to him across the crowded room and gesturing towards a private dining room. Mr Weasley was just behind him, trying to talk to Tom the Barman over the ruckus.

All of a sudden an awed silence spread over the bar and all eyes were on Harry as he stood in the doorway, dripping with water. The eerie silence was eventually broken as the patrons of the Leaky Cauldron started clapping.

Harry stared at his feet, feeling the heat of a blush spreading across his wet cheeks. He shuffled forwards, stumbling through the throng of bodies. Hands rained down on his back and his hand was shook vigorously by various unfamiliar faces… congratulating him, thanking him.

By the time he reached the bar, Harry was almost praying for a black hole to swallow him up. Mr Weasley ushered him into a private room beyond the bar and Harry was inordinately relieved to escape into the quiet.

Behind him he could hear excited whispers.

"_The_ Harry Potter!"

"The Boy-Who-Lived!"

"He saved us all!"

"I shook his hand!?!"

Mr Weasley closed the door behind him and the eager chatter was muffled. The rest of the Weasleys were already seated. Mrs Weasley was fussing with the table cloth while Bill and Charlie, seated beside her, appeared to be deep in conversation.

The twins were flicking strands of Ginny's wet, bedraggled hair into her eyes and she was squealing in protest, her pretty round face scrunched up in a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

Ron and Hermione were seated close together, an empty chair beside them waiting for him. Ron had his arm around Hermione's shoulder and they seemed both happy and slightly uncomfortable with this arrangement. The change from being 'just friends' to dating had not been particularly smooth for them, and they still sometimes felt a little unsure of where they stood with each other.

Mr Weasley pushed passed Harry with a jovial smile and sat beside his wife, taking her fingers in his hands and whispering, "Leave it alone, Molly, love," as she worried over the hole in the lace.

It was such a strikingly happy domestic picture that for several moments, Harry was reluctant to intrude. The only family member missing was Percy. While he had been welcomed back into the folds by most of his family after his self-imposed exile, his younger brothers were still fairly scathing of his past behaviour. He sometimes made a brief appearance at these family gatherings and sometimes he didn't come at all. He threw himself into his work at the Ministry, still trying to alleviate the vestiges of shame and guilt.

Harry stood by the door casting his eyes over this happy family and in that moment it was like the war had never happened. They slotted back into their old routine without a backwards glance and Harry wondered how they could do that.

They had all seen and felt the effects of the war as it progressed, and yet they were perfectly happy to forget it once it was over. Mr Weasley, Bill and Charlie had even been there at the final battle so why didn't they have this same numb, empty feeling that Harry had?

But, his mind reasoned, they hadn't had the extra weight and pressure that he had carried. They had chosen to be there, they hadn't been pushed into it by a sense of inescapable duty. It was perfectly understandable that they wouldn't be suffering the same aftermath that he was.

Harry slid into the waiting chair beside Ron. "What took you so long, mate?" Ron asked, clapping Harry on the shoulder with his free hand.

"Oh, just thinking," Harry replied vaguely, retrieving his 'everything is right with the world' smile and sticking it firmly in place.

"Oh, me, too," Hermione enthused. "I can't wait to get back to Hogwarts. It feels like an age since we were last there."

Back to Hogwarts. That was right. That was why they were in the Leaky Cauldron, Harry remembered suddenly. In just a few days time they would be returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for their seventh and final year of school.

Two years had passed since the end of their sixth year and technically, now that they were of age, they didn't need to go back, but as far as Harry knew most of his year would be returning anyway.

There would of course be some losses amongst the student body. Some, who had fled abroad, had completed their study elsewhere and a few, like the twins, had found jobs that didn't require N.E.W.Ts. And, of course, there were a few who had not made it through the war alive.

But everyone else would be returning to the familiar castle, now rebuilt, and most seemed inordinately grateful for it. Harry knew that like him, many of his year mates were not just looking for the satisfaction of graduating but were also craving the routine and normalcy that school provided. It would be so much easier to forget the war if they had something to distract them.

But Harry was also slightly apprehensive about going back. Would it even feel like Hogwarts without Professor Dumbledore? He closed his eyes momentarily and was assaulted by the image of Dumbledore lying sprawled on the dusty ground, his long silver hair hanging limply around him, his mouth slightly open in surprise and a vacant look in his dead eyes.

His relationship with Dumbledore had certainly suffered since that fateful night in the Department of Mysteries. Harry had even grown to resent the Headmaster's presence and interference in his life, but tolerated it in silence as usual. But despite the rift that had emerged between the puppet master and his marionette, Harry had still felt a profound sense of loss over Dumbledore's death.

Harry fought back a shiver and his eyes flew open again. He pushed all thoughts back to the dark recesses of his mind and turned his attention to his friends.

Dinner arrived and Harry let the various streams of conversation wash over him, participating occasionally.

He glanced around, his eyes taking in Ron and Hermione, Ginny and the twins. They were all joking and laughing. They were young and vibrant. Harry hadn't felt like that since the end of fourth year.

A cold, cruel voice had cried "Kill the spare" and as Cedric fell to the ground, lifeless, Harry was thrust into adulthood. He had felt trapped; trapped in a life that he was too young for. He grew up hard and fast. His childhood and adolescence had passed him by.

As he looked around this slightly dingy room, taking in the smiling faces, Harry wanted nothing more than to join in. On the outside, he went through the motions, but on the inside he feared that he had lost that part of himself forever.

He was tired of feeling old and worn. He wanted to laugh again; he wanted excitement; he wanted something new; he just wanted to be able to feel again.

With a heavy sign, Harry turned to George and asked for the salt.

As the meal ended Harry laid down his fork. A busty barmaid with long dark hair and a quirky smile entered the room to clear away the dishes, immediately capturing the twins' attention. As Harry watched them, his lips twisted upwards into a slight smile. He met Ginny's eyes across the table. She spotted the twins and mirrored his smile but didn't seem to notice that the expression hadn't quite reached his eyes.

The door to the bar stood wide open as the barmaid moved in and out clearing the table. Faint streams of chatter from the pub beyond wafted into the room.

Harry's eyes roamed the bar through the open doorway. A tall, hooded figure was standing at the bar talking to Tom.

Tom looked the figure up and down, a look of extreme dislike flitting across his usually jolly face, but he accepted the stranger's gold readily enough.

Harry sat back to let the barmaid take his plate. She smiled and blushed as her eyes raked over the famous lightning bolt scar. The twins cackled and nudged each other, wiggling their eyebrows suggestively. Harry barely contained the desire to roll his eyes. He wanted to shake them all.

When he glanced back through the doorway, Tom was pointing towards the stairs which were situated to the immediate left of the private room where Harry and Weasleys were enjoying their dinner. Apparently the stranger had been purchasing a room for the night. Their business completed the stranger turned. As he did so, his hood slipped down, and Harry met Draco Malfoy's cold grey eyes with a jolt of shocked recognition.

**.oO0Oo.**

A sharp bolt of lightning pierced the darkening sky. Moments later a loud clap of thunder rumbled overhead, destroying the fragile peace of the Wiltshire landscape.

Draco Malfoy stared up at the ominous-looking sky. At that very moment, the heavens opened and thick, fat droplets of water rained down.

It was the heavy, cold kind of rain. The kind that soaks you to the bone within seconds, but Draco Malfoy didn't run for cover as others might have done. He just stood there, his dark robes sodden with water, clinging to his body and his long blonde hair hanging limply around his pointed face.

He stood before a menacing manor, casting his eyes over the fine, gothic architecture. Everything about this manor exuded darkness, from the heavy black stone work, to the dull, lifeless gardens; from the eerie stillness that cloaked the fine old house to the remnants of Dark Magic that still lingered in the air.

To any stranger this house would have been particularly daunting, but Draco Malfoy had grown up here and knew it like the back of his hand. He wasn't intimidated and he wasn't afraid but for some strange, unfathomable reason he couldn't bring himself to enter.

Unconsciously, Draco ran long, pale fingers over his left forearm. Up until just six months ago, a fierce, ugly tattoo had rested there, a shock of dark magic marring the otherwise smooth, pale skin.

The Dark Mark… Feared by most of the wizarding world, but worshipped by a crazed few. It had been a symbol; a symbol of everything Draco had been brought up to believe; of everything that had been expected of him; of everything he had once wanted; of everything he had eventually grown to despise.

Draco had grown up believing that receiving the Dark Mark was the highest honour imaginable. His Slytherin ambition yearned for it. His father spun him tales of the glory, the respect and the power that accompanied the mark and Draco fell for it wholeheartedly, wanting nothing more than to experience it all for himself.

His early school years were marked with a fierce and intense dislike of everything and anything that represented an alternative. Harry Potter was the personification of this. What had begun as a childish rivalry sparked by a spurned friendship had escalated into fierce clash of personalities. Harry Potter was as Light as Draco was Dark, and Draco hated him for that.

Harry Potter became an integral part of Draco's life at Hogwarts. He was the hated enemy, the bitter rival, the proof that everything Lucius had ever told Draco was right.

Draco had rejoiced when the Dark Lord returned. He saw his path before him; the path to honour and fame and power and he ran towards it without a second thought.

During his fifth year at Hogwarts, with a Prefect badge on his robes and the twisted guidance of Professor Umbridge, Draco had experienced the power he so sorely craved and he could almost feel the Dark Lord's acceptance within his grasp.

But at the end of that monumental year, Draco's world had come crashing down around his feet. His father was arrested. Draco was outraged. The dishonour, the injustice that someone, anyone would dare to arrest the almighty Lucius Malfoy.

Draco blamed anyone within reach. He blamed the Ministry of Magic, he blamed Dumbledore, but most of all he blamed that upstart mudblood-loving little half-blood, Harry Potter.

He blamed everyone except those that actually lay at fault.

His mother had spent most of that summer holiday shut up in her room. She had been supposedly mourning the loss of her husband, but Draco had doubted that she possessed the depth of feeling required for that sort of emotion.

And so, for the first time ever, Draco was left to his own devices; left to ponder his own thoughts in peace.

Thus began the beginnings of disillusionment with the Dark side. He still believed the tales of glory he had heard from birth and he still craved the power that he believed Lord Voldemort could give him, but somewhere in the back of his mind a little voice wondered whether Lucius had been put in jail because he deserved it. The little voice then went on to ask whether the power of the Dark Mark was worth the danger. And finally the little voice asked whether Draco really wanted to join Voldemort or whether he was just doing it because he had never really stopped to consider an alternative.

After that question was raised the little voice had been hastily pushed away into a deep dark recess of Draco's mind and was forgotten.

Lucius didn't remain in Azkaban for long. By the time Draco left for his sixth year at Hogwarts, Lucius was back at his master's side and Draco realised with a jolt of excitement and slight apprehension that it wouldn't be long before he too joined the ranks of the awe-inspiring Death Eaters.

That year had passed expediently for Draco. He kept a sharp eye on his despised rival and wrote veiled letters to his father passing on any information he gathered. Every time Lucius replied, praising his son and passing on the Dark Lord's approval, Draco's confidence and determination grew. He had his sights firmly set on the Dark Mark and nothing would dissuade him from his goal.

The summer arrived and Draco reached the point of no return. On his 17th birthday, Lord Voldemort called for Draco's loyalty, his wand and his soul and Draco stepped forwards assuredly and handed them over. The Dark Mark burned into his pale flesh and Draco was shocked to discover that instead of feeling elated and proud as he had expected to, he just felt ill and powerless.

Draco was not alone in his initiation. Just weeks later, Pansy Parkinson, Gregory Goyle, Vincent Crabbe, Adrian Pucey and Theodore Nott all fell to the power of the Dark Lord.

The summer bridging his sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts was marked with extensive training. A select group of Death Eaters arrived at Malfoy Manor to oversee the young heir's induction into the Dark Arts.

Draco was somewhat surprised to find Professor Snape among them. He had always had a good relationship with the Potions Master but he had always suspected that Snape had turned from the dark path long ago. More than once, Draco fancied he caught the surly professor looking at him with something akin to regret and resignation in his eyes. The more he watched Snape, the more certain he became that his teacher's allegiance lay far away in the North of Scotland.

But Draco kept these suspicions to himself. Once he would have been eager to reveal such a betrayal, but he had stared down at the Dark Mark, black against his pale flesh and knew that he couldn't.

Draco had long since mastered the basics of Dark Magic but by the time August came to a close and the Death Eaters returned to their master, Draco had an arsenal of Dark curses under his belt; the Unforgivables had become second nature to the scion of the Malfoy dynasty.

Draco relished the feeling of immense power that flowed through him when he performed Dark Magic but always at the end when _Finite Incantatem_ was muttered, he was left feeling empty. And then he would look at the effects of the curse he had just cast and he would feel nothing but disgust; disgust at himself and then shame.

Very few Slytherins returned to Hogwarts after that summer. Most of the older Slytherins were initiated as soon as they reached their 17th birthday and many of the younger students were transferred to Durmstrang to await their turn. The Slytherin families who did not follow the Dark Lord quickly fled the country, seeking refuge abroad from Voldemort's vengeance.

And of course, Slytherins were not the only ones to swear loyalty to Voldemort. A significant number of Ravenclaws, and even Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, joined the ranks of the Dark Lord, a clear indication of the power this charismatic wizard managed to wield.

Draco attended his first Death Eater meeting just weeks before the attack on Hogwarts. It was a turning point for Draco.

A young Muggle girl had been captured. Draco watched as this young girl was tortured and then killed before his very eyes. All around him, the sadistic laughter of his fellow Death Eaters rang out. And Draco felt sick.

For the first time, he was confronted by the reality of actually being a Death Eater, of what Voldemort's cause actually entailed.

Draco had never been fond of Muggles. He didn't understand them and to be perfectly honest, he didn't want to. They were beneath him. They held the wizarding world back. They were responsible for some of the worst massacres and persecutions in wizarding history. They were pathetic and bumbling. But did they really need to be wiped of the face of the earth?

Draco had cast his eyes around the room and it was as though a dark veil had been lifted. He looked at his revered master and all he saw was a crazed madman, caught up in his own pursuit of revenge. He looked around at his fellow Death Eaters and all he saw were pathetic, grovelling servants. Where were the power and glory and honour in kissing the hem of a deranged lunatic?

From birth, Draco had been instilled with an overwhelming sense of family pride. The Malfoys were the most powerful, respected family in the history of the British Wizarding community. _Let them respect us, so long as they fear us_, Lucius had commanded. Malfoys were leaders; they bowed down to no one.

But now Draco looked across at his father. Lucius Malfoy, tall, elegant, supremely confident sank to his knees and bowed to his Lord, and something inside Draco snapped. The Malfoys _did_ bow in submission. Lucius had lied and Draco felt betrayed.

That little voice was back and after the attacks on Hogwarts and the Ministry, it just grew louder and more insistent.

However, by this stage the wheels had been set in motion. The wizarding world hurtled towards an inevitable war, and Draco was dragged along unable to free himself from the Dark Mark's death grip.

He grew to despise the Death Eaters and their master. He grew to despise his father and all the lies he had spun. But most of all, he grew to despise himself for being too weak to resist, too weak to do anything but blindly follow the path he had so foolishly chosen.

Draco had resigned himself to the life of a Death Eater and went about his duties with reluctant efficiency. Death and pain surrounded him, but he was numb to it.

As March dawned, Gregory Goyle was killed in a raid. Draco had never really been close to his schoolyard companion. He had appreciated Goyle's burly re-enforcement and protection, but had always considered him to be dispensable.

He had approached Goyle's broken body, secretly hoping that witnessing this waste of life would give him the push he needed to resist his preordained path. But it didn't. He had looked down at his former friend and felt nothing. And then he had turned away and returned to his master's side.

As the one year anniversary of his initiation approached, Draco had been skulking in an alcove off the main corridor that ran along the ground floor of the Riddle Manor, when a pair of faceless Death Eaters passed, whispering excitedly and Draco learned with a sickening jolt that Harry Potter had been captured.

Suddenly he was walking; his feet were taking him down through the Manor to the dungeons. He wasn't thinking. He didn't have a plan. He just needed to know. He had pushed the heavy iron door open; palm flat against the cold iron, he could feel the metal humming with Dark Magic.

Harry Potter was chained to the wall. His hair was stiff with dried blood and his face was streaked with dirt and tears. He was barely conscious and his eyes were dulled from the pain. A Death Eater was standing with his back to Draco. His wand was raised, poised to utter yet another shattering curse.

And in that moment, everything froze. As he looked down upon his adolescent rival, something in Draco's mind clicked and suddenly he could feel again. Suddenly the tortured innocent was no longer a nameless, faceless Muggle. Suddenly it became personal.

Draco hadn't understood it then and he still didn't understand it, but in that moment, Harry Potter's bruised and battered body, his broken spirit cried out to Draco. This boy that Draco had spent seven years despising suddenly represented salvation. Represented an alternative, a choice.

As the unknown Death Eater hovered over Potter, _crucio_ poised on his lips, Draco raised his own wand and rendered the Death Eater unconscious.

Potter had watched with shock and confusion as the Death Eater fell to the ground. He had observed unseeingly as Draco removed the Death Eater's mask and stared into that familiar face. He had shrank back against the wall as Draco had approached him, seeing nothing but another Death Eater hiding behind his gruesome mask. And he had fallen to the ground, unable to support his weight, when Draco released his shackles.

Draco could still see the haunted look in those bright green eyes as Potter floated somewhere between consciousness and oblivion.

Draco risked his life to carry the dead weight of Harry Potter out to now decrepit stables. But at the time he hadn't even been aware of the danger. He had been running on pure adrenaline.

Looking back on that night, it was pure luck that Draco and Potter had made it out of that manor alive and undiscovered, and not for the first time, Draco wondered whether some God, somewhere was looking out for the bespectacled Gryffindor hero.

He had flown north with Harry Potter clutching to him from behind. He had taken his precious cargo to the only place he could think of.

Severus Snape had answered his door with suspicion, fully prepared to start hurling curses. Draco remembered with a laugh the look on the Potion Master's face as his gaze fell on the unlikely duo standing on his doorstep. An unidentified Death Eater, holding up the barely conscious Boy-Who-Lived.

Snape had recovered quickly, asking Draco why he had brought Potter to him; playing the role of the shocked and dutiful Death Eater; threatening to tell the Dark Lord.

"I know you're a spy," Draco had said bluntly. Snape's eyes had widened and Draco knew that he recognised his voice.

Snape had implored Draco to stay. "Come back to Hogwarts with me," he had pleaded. "We can keep you safe. It doesn't have to be this way." But Draco had deposited the half-dead Harry Potter into his former teacher's arms and then left.

The following morning, Snape was renounced as a traitor. Voldemort was furious. To have had Harry Potter in his grasp only to lose him within hours had touched a raw nerve and when that meeting was over, every single Death Eater had sloped away in pain to nurse their wounds in private.

Draco had only just made it back to Malfoy Manor before he passed out. And for days afterwards he could still feel the after effects of the Crutatius Curse rippling around his body.

Draco had never had any intention of spying for Dumbledore. He saw the Hogwarts Headmaster as a master manipulator, a puppeteer jerking the strings of those below him. Draco was little more than a servant to the Dark Lord, a dispensable pawn in a war of vengeance… but at least he knew where he stood. Voldemort never made an effort to hide how he saw his faithful followers.

But Dumbledore was the ultimate chess player, moving his pieces around the board. Draco often wondered if Potter ever realised how he was being used by the old man. But something told him that even if Potter did know, he would have continued to fight anyway. He was just like that, Potter was.

So Draco dismissed any notion that suggested he should take up Snape's newly vacated position as spy. When he left Potter with Snape he had fully expected that to be the end of it. He honestly didn't think he had the strength or the nerve for treachery. It seemed like such a foolishly Gryffindor thing to do.

Occasionally he found himself considering writing to his former Mentor, considered passing on crucial information he was sure the Other Side would be grateful to have. But he never did.

Sometimes he felt guilty. He witnessed deaths and wondered if he could have done something to prevent them. But still he didn't write. In the end, his sense of self-preservation won out over any conscience he still possessed.

Besides he had already saved the one life that truly mattered. Harry Potter lived and, with him, the hope of the Wizarding World.

As far as he was aware only Snape knew the details of that fateful night. Before he returned to his master, he had instructed the Potions Master never to reveal who retrieved The-Boy-Who-Lived from danger. He supposed Snape had probably told Dumbledore. But he wasn't especially concerned about that. All he cared about was that Potter never found out who had released him that night in the dungeons.

Draco never really understood this need for privacy. Less than a year ago, Draco probably would have taken every moment available to triumph over Potter, to remind him that he owed his life to none other than Draco Malfoy. But now he hoped that Potter never found out. He didn't think he could stand Potter's gratitude, a gratitude he wasn't even sure he deserved.

The end of the war had come sooner than Draco was expecting. He had been a Death Eater for barely a year and a half when the dramatic climax unfolded.

He had stayed back as his fellow Death Eaters made their final attack. He had watched from the shadows as the final battle between Voldemort and Potter played out on the dark battlefield. He saw Dumbledore fall and he saw Voldemort's skeletal frame disintegrate as Potter triumphed. He had felt the excruciating burn of pain on his forearm as the Dark Mark disappeared forever and after that he had Disapparated away, leaving his fellow Death Eaters to their fate.

He had spent the past six months in France. The Malfoys owned a vineyard in the south and although years of neglect had left it run-down and decrepit, it had become a strangely comfortable home, if only temporary. He lived alone and isolated.

Every day Draco woke expecting Aurors to beat down his door and arrest him. But none came. He didn't understand it. He was certain that the captured Death Eaters would have named every one of their brothers in an attempt to save their own lives. He didn't know why he had been spared the Ministry Inquiry, or if his protection came from Snape or the now deceased Dumbledore or both, but he was eternally grateful.

And then one day, not long ago, a letter had arrived from Snape, informing him that Hogwarts would be reopening this year and inviting him to return to complete his seventh year. Snape's unexpected correspondent left Draco confused and wary. Why would Snape have thought that Draco wanted to come back, why would he think that Draco would even be welcome?

Initially Draco had discarded the letter, not even stopping to give the offer a single thought. He was 19 now, long since come of age. He didn't need to graduate. It wouldn't matter anyway; no one would hire a Malfoy, diploma or not.

But he was still plagued by nightmares and fears, and in the end he found himself returning to England, seeking a refuge at Hogwarts from the outside world.

He had come straight to Malfoy Manor, intending to stay here until the train left in a couple of days. But now as the rain fell around him, he realised that he couldn't go back in there. He didn't even know why. The house was empty. A shell, stark and dismal against the landscape.

His father was long gone, perished on that final battlefield and Draco had felt little sorrow at the loss of his one-time hero.

His mother had died not long after. The Ministry of Magic had arrived on her doorstop with the news that her husband was dead and her son was missing, and a warrant to search the Manor.

Narcissa Malfoy had let them in and then retired to her room. She had sat by the window and sedately drank her tea. Moments later, the poison that mingled with the sweet Earl Grey flooded her veins and she drifted into an endless sleep.

Draco had spared only a few moments pondering the motive behind his mother's suicide. He would have liked to think that she couldn't bear living without her husband and son, but he rather suspected that she merely didn't want to face the shame or the hassle of having her home publicly ransacked by the Ministry. In the end he pushed her to the back of his mind as well; just another death, another casualty.

Perhaps that was the reason, Draco thought. Perhaps he couldn't enter his childhood home because it was a home no longer. All it represented was death, pain and decay… the final fall of the prestigious Malfoy dynasty.

Draco Malfoy turned around in the mud and raised his wand. A loud, sharp crack echoed across the empty fields and then there was silence and the pale figure was gone.

He Apparated in an alleyway, just around the corner from the dingy entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. The rain was light and drizzly here in London and Draco felt foolish standing there, his robes sodden and the hem caked in mud. He replaced his wand and left the alley.

He strode purposefully down the gloomy street. Unlike the figure that had stood on this spot earlier, Draco Malfoy was immediately noticeable. Everything from his clothes to his air of superiority commanded attention. Muggles swerved to avoid him. Eyes widened as they took in the dark, almost menacing figure and then they returned to the pavement and the owners hurried away.

Draco stood before the door for several moments. This wasn't a good idea. It was highly unlikely that the wizarding world would greet the sole surviving Malfoy with anything but hatred and distrust.

He took a deep steadying breath and pushed the heavy door open. The pub was dimly-lit and smoky, but it was warm and Draco felt an almost instant sense of relief.

A moment later, all sense of warmth and comfort evaporated. Silence reigned in the previously noisy bar and all eyes were on the pale figure standing in the doorway.

Draco felt the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he faced the open hostility and stepped forwards over the threshold. He made his way across the crowded room towards the bar, his eyes shifting restlessly around at the staring patrons and one hand gripping his wand through his soggy robes. They stared back at him with a mixture of disgust and fear.

He was half way across the room when the whispers started.

"Bah! A _Malfoy_!"

"Bad news, the lot of them!"

"Just like his father, that one."

"Evil, mark my words."

"Death Eater!"

Draco's shoulders tensed as these vicious barbs met his ears. As he approached the bar, a tiny haggard witch stepped forwards and spat at his feet. "Filthy Death Eater scum! Why couldn't you die with the rest of your kind?!?" she snarled.

Draco clenched his fists, trying to block out her words. He drew closer to the bar. He could still feel hundreds of eyes shooting daggers at his back. Self-consciously, he drew up his hood as though this would protect him from their piercing gaze.

He stepped up to the bar, placing his long pale hands on the well-worn wood of the counter. Tom the Barkeeper approached him cautiously, a sneer of dislike on his usually cheery face.

"What d'you want?" he asked gruffly, wiping his grimy fingers on his apron.

"A room," Draco stated.

Tom started to refuse, but Draco pulled out his soft leather coin purse, scattering the gold Galleons on the bar top. Tom's eyes flicked from Draco's shadowed face to the gold and back again. Slowly he reached down and fingered the gold lightly. Draco only just managed to bite back a sneer; the general wizarding public might fear and despise the Malfoy family, but they never had any problem with the Malfoy gold.

"Alright, Malfoy," he said begrudgingly. "Just the one night?" He eyed the gold again.

"I'll be leaving on the 1st," Draco replied, snatching the offered key, vaguely registering the number 13 etched on the tarnished bronze keyring.

Tom nodded curtly and pointed towards the stairs. Draco turned to leave, but his cloak caught on one of the barstools. His hood slipped down and as Draco looked up, he found himself staring into a familiar pair of penetrating green eyes.

For a split second, Draco froze but he recovered immediately, fixing his usual emotionless, blank expression on his face.

Draco freed his cloak hurriedly and brushed through the staring crowd, seeking the refuge of the empty stairwell. As he disappeared, the conversations started again in the bar and it was as though he hadn't even been there.

Wearily he climbed the stairs. They creaked ever so slightly with his weight and his sodden robes left a trail of water on the dusty, well-worn steps. He stepped onto the second floor landing, taking in his surroundings. The corridor was dimly lit but even through the gloom Draco could make out the dust and cobwebs that ornamented the ageing walls and ceiling. The air was thick and stale, almost tangible.

Once upon a time Draco would have shuddered at the mere sight of something so plebeian; as a Malfoy, he would never have lowered himself to this level. The Leaky Cauldron was a place only frequented by the lowest ranks of wizarding society, people like the Weasleys.

But now, in the face of little alternative, he swallowed his revulsion, although he did allow himself a brief sneer at the small grubby window that adorned the far end of the corridor, taking in its smeared appearance and the dull glow of the Muggle streetlamp beyond.

Draco searched the row of doors for number 13. He fitted the key in the lock and slipped inside, preparing himself for the worst. Some people might have called the room cosy, but cramped was the word that first came to Draco's mind.

However, it was clean and neat, and above all, welcoming; a fire was blazing in the grate and a series of candles were casting a warm glow over the comfortable furniture.

Draco retrieved his shrunken trunk from his pocket and returned it to its original size. He removed his soaked robes, leaving them in a pile on the floor where not even the thickest of House Elves could miss them.

For a moment he stood in the middle of the room in his underwear, shivering in spite of the glowing fire. When he managed to pull himself out of his daze, he dragged the extra blanket off the end of the bed and, wrapping it around himself, sank into one of the plush armchairs by the fire. The woollen blanket was harsh and scratchy against his bare skin, but it was warm and oddly comforting.

He gazed into the swirling flames, but he didn't see it; he just looked through it. All he could see were green eyes, wide in a shocked and wary expression.

"Potter," he muttered bitterly to the empty room. "Just what I need right now."

And with little more thought than that, he sagged back into his chair and let sleep overcome him.

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**Author's Notes: Well, that's the first chapter. I don't know when I'll be able to get the next one up. I'm rather embroiled in my Gundam Wing fic at the moment and feel guilty for taking time off to start this story. But if the interest is there, I'll continue to juggle more balls than I'm able and will put the next chapter of this story up for you as well.**

**So what I'm trying to say is… please review!**


	2. Chapter Two

Title: Do You Trust Me?   
Author: Prynesque   
Genre: Yaoi/slash, romance, angst   
Pairing: Harry/Draco   
Rated: R   
Warnings: Potential (though unintended) OOC, some swearing, slash, alternating POV, possible Australian-isms.   
Feedback: Hell yeah? What I'm trying to say is that if you feel the urge to review, please indulge it. I don't even care what you say. Good, bad, it's all the same to me – just so long as I get to hear from you.   
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy… they are copywrited to someone else. They are being used without permission and no money is being made. I reiterate: they aren't mine (and if you think they are you should probably take this opportunity to get your head checked). However, this story is mine and mine alone, and if you so much as think of nicking any part of it, I'll hunt you down and set my demon kitty cat on you (be afraid, be very afraid).   
Notes: This story is set following the downfall of Voldemort in Harry and Draco's final year at Hogwarts. This story is also slash (or yaoi or whatever you want to call it), so if you don't like that… well, bugger off and come back when you have some taste!

**Author's Notes: Well, here we are again with the second instalment. I have a nasty feeling that this going to end up being a rather mammoth fic. Damn plot bunnies with their incessant niggling ideas. Meh, I guess my social life will just have to suffer so that I can concentrate on the more important things (good to know I've got my priorities straight). **

**Well, that's probably enough of my rambling. Believe me, there's a lot more I could bore you with, but I kind of want you lot to stick around, so I'll spare you this time. Oh, and thank you to everyone who reviewed encouraging me to keep writing this fic. Your kind words mean a lot to me, so cheers! I hope you like this second chapter, and should you feel the urge to review… well, please indulge it – urges shouldn't be ignored.**

**.oO0Oo. signals change of POV**

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* * *

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**Do You Trust Me?**

Chapter Two:

Harry's eyes followed the familiar figure as it pushed its way through the crowded bar.

His fists were clenched tightly under the table and he could feel a sudden rushing sound in his ears. How dare he come back here! What was he trying to prove? Everyone knew he was a Death Eater, why couldn't he just stay forgotten?

"Malfoy!" he heard Ron mutter disgustedly behind him. Harry turned to meet Ron's eyes. Normally bright and cheerful, they were now hard and dark, and Ron's lip was curling in anger. Hermione looked slightly pale but instead of staring at Malfoy she was watching Harry intently, almost as though she were convinced he was about to break.

Malfoy's reappearance in the Wizarding World had gone unnoticed by the rest of the Weasleys; they were still immersed in their chatter, their minds untroubled by the return of former Death Eaters.

Harry could practically feel the heat coming from Ron, rolling off him in waves of anger, and for the briefest of moments he could almost feel a mere shadow of Ron's rage fostering itself in his own mind. The emotion had merely started to rise within him when, just as suddenly as they had assaulted him, they eluded his grasp, fading into oblivion and Harry was left feeling nothing but emptiness. He sagged in defeat.

"Forget him, Ron." He felt rather than saw Ron turn to stare at him incredulously.

"But… but… it's _Malfoy_!" The last word was spat and seemed to leave a foul taste in Ron's mouth.

"I know," Harry said heavily. "I just want to forget it. It's over."

Ron opened his mouth to argue, but Hermione elbowed him swiftly in the ribs, shaking her head slightly. Ron exhaled in resignation and lent forward over the table when Fred and George drew him into their conversation. It was that easy for him. Harry told him to forget it and he did.

Harry stared at the table top, running his fingers against the grain, up and down the worn grooves. He could feel Hermione's eyes on him. Part of him wanted to look up and meet her gaze, but another, more insistant part told him that it would be pointless. She would try and draw him into yet another deep and meaningful conversation, the kind that didn't go anywhere, that always ended with Hermione getting frustrated at his lack of communication.

She was always after him to talk about his feelings, his memories; her soft brown eyes would find his and she would ask how he was but Harry never knew how to answer. The words always caught in his throat, a solid lump of emotion that just refused to be released. And always, in the back of his mind, there was the lingering thought that even if he managed to articulate the crippling mass of thoughts that plagued him, she wouldn't understand… she couldn't. She hadn't lost like he had lost. She hadn't suffered like he had suffered. No, she wouldn't understand. He still loved her dearly, she was one of his best friends, but there are some things that not even a best friend can understand.

The evening was drawing to a close; Harry could feel it. Bill and Charlie were taking their leave, their chairs scraping slightly against the heavy stone floor as they pushed themselves away from the table to stand. Bill was going home to Fleur, his long-time girlfriend who, even after four and a half years, still didn't come to these family gatherings. The volatile tempers of the Weasley matriarch and her son's part-Veela girlfriend were incompatible at the best of times and Bill had learned early on that confining them both to the same room was not a wise decision. Charlie still found it amusing.

The second Weasley son was a different matter altogether. Now that the war was over, Mrs Weasley divided her time between encouraging Charlie to move back home to England and pestering him about his apparent lack of a love life. Charlie would always smile enigmatically and say that he was happy where he was.

Harry had long since given up trying to follow the arguments that passed between the two of them but suspected that there was more to Charlie's life than he was currently admitting. Ginny seemed the only other one who realised this and she and Harry would often share secret, knowing glances at the expense of the rest of the family.

Charlie would be flooing straight back to Romania from his elder brother's cosy, familiar apartment, and although Mrs Weasley made one last ditch effort to cajole her son into staying the night, he smiled resolutely, bending at the waist to kiss her on the cheek as he said goodbye.

The eldest Weasley sons moved around the table, taking the time to bid farewell to all the members of their family. They each hugged Ginny in turn, Charlie tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear as he said his goodbyes; they embraced their father and clapped each of their younger brothers on the back, faces lit up by happy smiles; they smiled affectionately at Hermione and Bill patted her shoulder gently. Finally, they both approached Harry, squeezing his shoulder in farewell. Harry smiled back at them automatically and wasn't surprised when they both failed to noticed the lack of emotion in his eyes.

The room seemed significantly emptier once they had left. Mrs Weasley ushered her remaining children out of the dinning room, chivying them along with her hands. George's raucous laughter remained in the room for many minutes after he had exited and Mrs Weasley frowned affectionately.

Harry was the last one to leave the dining room. He lingered aimlessly for several moments before crossing the worn threshold and emerging into the bar after the Weasleys. Red hair and smiling faces whirled around him. He felt like he was on a Merry-Go-Round, dizzy and vaguely nauseous. He wondered if he'd ever be able to get off.

Fred and George disappeared out into Diagon Alley, making for the humble flat above their shop premises, and then there were just six of them standing at the bottom of the dark staircase.

Harry let Ron sling an arm around his shoulder and allowed himself to be steered up the stairs. They were all staying at the Leaky Cauldron until the Hogwarts Express left. The Burrow had been destroyed during the war and when peace had finally dawned Mrs Weasley had suggested that they stay on at the house in Grimmauld Place. But Harry had said no.

He had tolerated living there during the war. The house was always full of Order members, full of distractions… with a war going on around them, there was little time to stop and replay the memories that lingered in every corner of the old house. But now Harry couldn't bear to go back there. He was afraid that all he would see and hear in the stillness would be Sirius… would be the ghosts of all the other Order members that had been lost.

Mrs Weasley had pressed Harry at first. She had been gentle and kind in her persistence but Harry hadn't been able to recognise that until it was too late, and he had finally snapped and told her rather sharply to mind her own business. He could still remember the shocked, hurt look on her face and he still felt slightly guilty.

Harry shook his head distractedly as he slowly climbed the stairs. His legs suddenly felt like lead, but he could feel the warmth of Ron's arm across his shoulders and was glad. In spite of all the noise in the stairwell and the constant chatter coming from the bar, Harry could still hear each individual footstep on the stairs and every answering squeak from the floorboards as though his senses were suddenly heightened. It was an unusually disorienting sensation.

Harry stumbled out onto the second floor landing, Ron and Hermione close behind him. Mr and Mrs Weasley and Ginny had rooms on the first floor and Harry could hear their lively chatter on the landing below.

They all stopped by the first door and Hermione fumbled for her key. The door swung open with an uneasy creak revealing the neatly ordered room beyond. Hermione turned back and smiled at Harry, leaning up to kiss his cheek. She might have said something but Harry wasn't sure. He wasn't really listening.

"Night, 'Mione," he muttered before stepping back.

Ron and Hermione regarded each other nervously. Ron gave a shy grin and bent down to drop a brief kiss on Hermione's lips. They were both slightly pink when they drew away.

Ron caught Harry's eye as Hermione disappeared into her room. Harry returned the smile somewhat mechanically and the blush spread to the tips of Ron's ears, staining them a bright pink. Harry rolled his eyes in amusement, jostling Ron with his elbow. The redhead returned the grin sheepishly, massaging the back of his neck with his hand unconsciously.

The affection that had been slowly developing between the two of them had been obvious to everyone except the pair concerned, and when they both finally got up the nerve to do something about their feelings, it had been awkward, neither particularly sure how to cross the line between friend and lover.

Harry was truly happy for them but when he thought about it, he had probably been relieved more than anything else when Ron and Hermione had finally managed to work out whatever had been blossoming between them for years; the tension that had seeped into their triangular friendship had become almost unbearable.

Yes, it _had_ been a relief, but as time passed Harry began to realise that the tension had not been completely erased. Certainly it was different, less noticeable, but it was still there. It had taken Harry several weeks before he had come to the conclusion that, this time, he was the source of the awkwardness. Ron and Hermione still hadn't noticed, but as their relationship deepened, it became more and more obvious to Harry.

He couldn't help but feel slightly left out; the old adage about the third wheel was, at times, overwhelmingly appropriate. He knew they didn't do it on purpose, he knew that the last thing Ron and Hermione wanted to do was exclude him, but it didn't change the fact that they did, however unconsciously. And Harry supposed that was only natural. They were still trying to fumble their way through the newness of their relationship; they didn't need him continually getting in the way.

Harry still loved them dearly; they were his closest friends. He knew that their friendship would remain steady through the years to come; they had simply been through too much together for that to ever change. But Harry still felt awkward when he was alone with them. He was constantly worried that he was intruding upon their relationship, that they were secretly wishing he would give them some space. And so his gradually began to distance himself from them, not enough for them to notice, but enough for him to feel less like he was crowding them, enough for him to feel ever so slightly lonely.

And although he would never admit it aloud, Harry was jealous. Not because he was secretly in love with either of them but because they were experiencing this maelstrom of emotions as they explored each other while he was left feeling barely anything at all.

Harry was jolted out of his thoughts as Hermione's door shut with a click. He followed Ron down the corridor and they paused halfway down, outside the next door. Ron pulled Harry into a quick half hug, the sort of gesture that says 'I care about you' but isn't long enough for things to get weird.

He cast Harry one of his brilliant grins, an expression that never failed to make Harry feel slightly better. "Night, mate!" Ron said enthusiastically, stepping away and fitting the key into the lock.

Harry smiled in spite of himself. "Night, Ron."

Ron disappeared into the mess of his room, the door of number 10 creaking as it swung shut behind him. And Harry was alone in the corridor. He could still hear a faint rumble of noise from the pub below, but otherwise, it was completely silent. He glanced up and down the slightly crooked corridor, suddenly feeling very alone.

He groped in his pocket for his key and hurried to let himself into number 11. The fire was blazing merrily, casting happy shadows around the warm room. They had been staying at the Leaky Cauldron for sometime already and the room showed much evidence of Harry's presence. Clothes were left on the floor, books and other possessions littered every surface, and his precious Firebolt was propped up in one corner.

Harry hadn't really flown since the beginning of the war. Sometimes, in the darkness of his room at Grimmauld Place, he would let his fingers curl around the handle as it hovered beside him, tempting him. But in that time of war, there had been little time for frivolities and so Harry had always put it away again, feeling uncomfortable pangs in his chest.

He wondered vaguely if he'd still know how to fly. He supposed it was like riding a bike, not that he'd ever learnt to ride a bicycle as a child. But as his gaze fell on the neglected broomstick, he felt the familiar rush of anticipation; he could almost imagine that he was back on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, the Snitch glinting in the sunlight, just beyond his reach.

Thinking about Quidditch invariably brought him back to Malfoy and Harry was dragged out of his daydream with a nasty bump. He could still see those cloudy grey eyes, burning right through him. He wondered which room Malfoy was staying in. He could be right next door.

Green eyes widened perceptibly as a sudden wave of paranoia washed over him. He crossed the room hurriedly and pressed his ear to the smooth wooden wall. He listened intently for several minutes before he realised what he was doing. He laughed out loud nervously.

"You're being stupid, Potter," he muttered to the empty room, shaking his head. He was half expecting the mirror to comment on that, but it didn't. At first, the constant commentary from an inanimate object had unnerved him, but by now he was used to it, and it felt strange when his musings were greeted by silence. With one last shake of his head, he moved quietly around the room getting ready for bed.

He slid between the cool sheets with relief. Harry felt overwhelming more comfortable in the quiet sanctuary of his room than he did surrounded by the Weasleys. This was a new development. He used to love the feeling of being swept up in the constant motion that was the Weasley family and now he felt guilty about craving solitude.

But as soon as he was lying in the darkness, wrapped in a protective cocoon of blankets, the guilt faded away. Sleep washed over him and the dreams descended.

_Harry was surrounded by darkness when he came to. His head was pounding and his scar was throbbing steadily. Wave after wave of dizziness and nausea washed over him._

_He was upright against a cold stone wall, his legs and arms splayed away from his body. He could feel the cool grip of metal around his wrists and ankles. For a brief moment he tried to struggle against his bindings, sharp metallic edges cutting into his flesh, but all strength seemed to have left him and he slumped forwards, held up only by his shackled wrists._

_Slowly Harry's eyes grew accustomed to the dark gloom. There were other sets of chains hanging from the walls. And opposite him, a heavy iron door locked him in._

_This was the end, wasn't it? There would be no lucky escape this time. No miraculous rescue. He was going to die. Voldemort would kill him and the prophesy would be fulfilled. He had failed._

_He closed his eyes, willing the tears not to fall, but they did regardless, leaving thin wet trails down his dirt-smudged face, salty against his lips._

_Gradually he became aware of a faint light piercing his eyelids. When he opened them, he realised that the dungeon door was ajar. A lone Death Eater was standing in the doorway, wand in hand. A dull light was issuing from the wand-tip, casting eerie shadows around the stone room. _

_Harry glanced around taking in his surroundings now that he had light to see by. The walls were covered with thick, dark stains and Harry realised a second later that it was blood. His stomach lurched and he forced down the bile that rose in his throat._

_The Death Eater approached him, his wand held high. The footsteps echoed around the small room, bouncing off the stone walls._

_Harry tried to shrink back against the wall, desperately trying to avoid the inescapable fate that awaited him._

_The grotesque mask covering the Death Eater's face seemed to be laughing at him. It was cruel and harsh; it promised pain and then death. Harry screwed his eyes shut, trying to block it out. He couldn't see the wand as it was directed at him, but he heard the faintly familiar cold, heartless voice as it muttered the familiar curse._

_At once his entire body was wracked with pain. He felt like he was on fire, like he was being burned alive from the inside out. His scar was burning now and it felt like his whole body was going to split in two. He could hear endless screams echoing around the dungeon, and realised with a jolt that they were coming from him._

_He didn't know how long this torture went on for. He blacked out several times only to be dragged back into consciousness again. His voice gave out after a while. His lungs still screamed and gasped for air, but no sound came out._

_Somewhere, faintly in the distance, he could hear the Death Eater speaking, asking questions, making cruel taunts, laughing a sadistic, hollow laugh. Harry tried desperately to decipher the words, but all he understood was the horrific pain that surrounded him and the deafening roar of impending death in his ears._

_And then suddenly the pain stopped. It took every ounce of strength he had left to lift his head slightly. The Death Eater had paused and was regarding him. The wand was still pointed directly at his heart._

_Harry struggled feebly. Darkness was starting to seep into his vision again. He was just about to succumb to oblivion when a second voice came out of nowhere… "Stupefy!"_

_Harry looked up just in time to see the Death Eater fall to the ground in a crumbled heap. Harry raised his eyes to the doorway. A second Death Eater was standing there, wand drawn. Harry fought to stay conscious as the darkness gave way to confusion. His first thought was that Severus Snape had somehow come for him, but then the voice replayed itself in his mind and he realised it was very different to the cold harsh tone of the Hogwarts Potions Master._

_Slowly the Death Eater stepped forward into the room. His footsteps clicked harshly on the stone floor. Harry watched as the stranger paused beside the body of his fallen comrade. Slowly he reached down and removed the mask. The Death Eater stepped back with a jerk, dropping the mask to the ground. Lucius Malfoy's unconscious form lay spread-eagled on the ground between them, his long blonde hair strewn across his hard, vacant face._

_Harry looked back up at the second Death Eater. For a moment, the stranger seemed to falter. Harry looked down at the wand clutched in the stranger's hand and realised with a jolt that the stranger was trembling ever so slightly. _

_Harry waited, suspended in confusion, as the stranger hesitated.__ Finally the fingers curled around the wand tightened in determination. The stranger seemed to regain his purpose and skirted around Lucius Malfoy to where Harry was hanging limply. Harry shrank back against the wall instinctively._

_The wand was directed at him and Harry closed his eyes and waited for the curse. But it didn't come. "Releaseo!" the voice was soft but firm. It rang in Harry's ears as though it had been shouted and somewhere in the back of Harry's mind, it was strangely familiar._

_Harry fell forwards as his hands and feet were released from their bonds. His knees connected with the hard stone with a crack. Harry let out a groan of pain, swaying slightly. He was vaguely aware of the Death Eater hovering above him. _

_Slowly he raised his eyes. The Death Eater was just standing there. And then, ever so slowly, a pale, almost translucent, hand was extended. Harry's eyes darted from the hand to the mask and back again. Every fibre of his being was shouting that taking the hand of an unidentified Death Eater was not a sensible thing to do._

_"Trust me," the voice came from above, oddly calm and quiet and suddenly, almost mechanically, Harry raised his arm and gripped the offered hand; it was cool and soft to the touch, but Harry could feel slight calluses as well, like the ones he himself had from hours of flying and Quidditch practice._

_He let himself be hauled to his feet. He swayed heavily and nearly pitched forwards. The Death Eater grasped him around the waist, steadying him._

_And then they were walking. Through the door, up steep steps, down a narrow, darkened back corridor and out into the cool night. The breeze swirled around them, the only thing keeping Harry awake. He stumbled over rough ground. The strong arm around his waist was the sole reason he stayed upright. _

_He could faintly make out a ruined structure looming ahead of them. He was ushered into a room. The air was musty, thick with the smell of age and decay. Harry felt himself lowered onto something hard and wooden. A box of some kind. The wood was harsh and unpolished under his fingers. The Death Eater was moving around him, and Harry tried to follow his movements, but another wave of dizziness forced him to close his eyes._

_Harry wasn't sure how long he sat there. It could have been a minute; it could have been an hour. A sharp snap of fingers woke Harry from his daze. When he opened his eyes, he could see an elegant racing broom hovering before him. The fine gold script on the handle read 'Firebolt II'._

_Again the Death Eater offered Harry his hand, the other one firmly grasping the broom handle. Harry eyed the hand warily for a moment._

_"Do you trust me?" the Death Eater urged, his hand shaking slightly. Harry glanced at the hand one more time. Yes, yes he did trust this stranger. He didn't know why; it was pure instinct. He grasped the hand again and let himself be manoeuvred onto the broom. The Death Eater slid on in front of him, and Harry slumped forwards over the strangers back, gripping the warm, solid body around the waist._

_And then suddenly they were flying. It was terrifying. Harry had never flown tandem before. It was an odd and unsettling sensation, not being in control. The wind rushed past him and every movement the broom made felt exaggerated. Harry screwed his eyes shut, praying to every God he had ever heard of that he would make it through this wild ride. They hadn't been flying for very long when Harry lost consciousness._

_He woke again when his feet connect with the ground, jolts of pain shooting up his legs. His vision was slightly blurred and the dark house before them was swimming in and out of focus. _

_Again a strong arm wrapped around his waist, guiding him to the front door. Loud knocks assaulted Harry's ears and he winced at the sudden noise. The door opened cautiously and then was flung wide. Snape was standing there in his dressing gown, wand at the ready._

_Harry heard him say something; asking the Death Eater why he was here. Harry groaned softly and the arm gripped his waist tighter._

_"I know you're a spy," the stranger's voice rumbled close to Harry's ear. It wasn't accusing, it was just stating a fact. Snape's eyes widened._

_Harry felt the arm slowly retracting from around his waist and he stumbled forwards. Snape hurried over the threshold, catching Harry swiftly before he connected with the floor. Snape hauled him up under the arms, steadying him. _

_Snape__ was speaking again but the darkness was descending once more and Harry could barely make out the words. It sounded like Snape was asking the Death Eater to stay. He caught the words 'Hogwarts' and 'safe' but little else was discernible._

_Harry watched the Death Eater shake his head, speaking quietly and then he was standing back and gripping the broom once more. Harry raised his hand feebly as the Death Eater swung one leg over the broom handle. He grasped at thin air; he didn't know if he was trying to say thank you or trying to get the stranger to stay._

_The last thing Harry saw was the Death Eater rising into the air and then disappearing into the blackened sky. Harry turned his head slightly towards Snape, and then sank into oblivion._

Harry woke with a jolt. He was shivering violently and a cold sweat covered his body. Every night when he closed his eyes, Harry remembered that night in the dungeons and every night, the memories faded as soon as he woke. He tried desperately to hold on to the visions, but slowly they blurred together and all Harry was left with was the sensation of an arm around his waist and a voice whispering something.

He punched his pillow in frustration before flopping back against it. A faint orange glow was peeking through the drawn curtains from the street lamp outside.

The clock on the bedside table politely informed him that it was a quarter to four. Harry groaned. It was early, but he felt wide awake. He fumbled for his glasses in the dim light. Drawing his blankets around him, he rose and settled in a chair by the fire. The fire had long since gone out and there was nothing but smouldering ashes in the grate. Harry sat as still as a statue, staring into the empty fireplace, and waited for morning to come.

**.oO0Oo.**

Draco woke late the next morning, stiff from an awkward nights sleep spent in a slightly sagging armchair. His stomach grumbled loudly in hunger, but Draco wasn't sure he could face the other patrons of the Leaky Cauldron. The reception he had received the previous night was still fresh in his mind.

In the end, he conjured a plate of sandwiches and ate them, perched on the window sill looking down onto the Muggle street below. Muggles bustled to and fro, up and down the street, unaware of the entire world that lay just metres away behind a shabby, unseen pub. Draco's lips twisted into a faint sneer as he watched the Muggles hurry about their hum-drum lives.

He was tempted to remain in his room all day, safe from the prying, hating eyes of the Wizarding world. But somewhere in the bottom of his trunk, a list of required reading demanded his attention. He really didn't want to venture out into Diagon Alley, but those books weren't going to buy themselves so he geared himself up to face the outside world once more.

"Get it together", he demanded harshly to the empty room. "You're a Malfoy, for Merlin's sake." This statement seemed to leave a rather bitter taste in Draco's mouth. His mind flew back to that witch last night who had spat at him, and he sighed in resignation; being a Malfoy was not the proud and prestigious thing it had once been.

He dressed meticulously. His robes were the finest gold could buy, and they fitted him like a glove, accentuating his fine aristocratic posture and grace. He paused before the mirror, brushing loose strands of hair out of his eyes.

"Oooh, aren't you the pretty one?" the mirror cooed appreciatively.

He regarded himself for a moment. Sharp, refined features. Straight nose, pointed chin, pale skin, high cheek bones and deep mysterious eyes. He had lost that childlike quality, matured and hardened in just a few short years.

His hair was longer than it had been at Hogwarts; it fell below his shoulders now and was tied at the base of his neck with a dark leather tie, adding several years to his appearance. He looked more like his father now; staring at his reflection, it was almost like looking at Lucius twenty years ago. Except for his eyes; his eyes didn't have quite the same hard, icy quality that Lucius' had had.

He turned his head slightly to admire his profile. Ever since he could remember, he had been praised for his looks. He had been called pretty and gorgeous by witches and wizards alike. And they were right of course. He had been pretty.

When Draco was younger he had always considered 'pretty' to be tantamount to saying 'girlish'. Girls were pretty; boys weren't supposed to be pretty, they were supposed to be handsome and dashing, like Oliver Wood or Terence Higgs. But his face was too pointed, his skin too pale to be considered handsome, and that was something that had always been a great dissatisfaction for the young Draco.

But now, when he looked at himself in the mirror, he didn't see pretty or girlish… he was more striking now, perhaps still a little too pointed and angular and certainly too pale, but he was definitely arresting. He saw a face that people always looked twice at because they simply couldn't help themselves. Something about Draco commanded attention, although moments later the looks would be matched to the name and he would receive a very different kind of attention.

He turned his head to the other side. All fine lines and effortless grace. Malfoy traits, proudly passed down through the generations, protected and secured by marrying into only the best of the European pureblood families. He felt a resurgence of that old family pride, a feeling he hadn't experienced for what felt like years.

He almost smiled. "At least I haven't lost any of my vanity," he muttered to his reflection, rolling his eyes.

He placed a series of protective charms over his luggage before exiting the room. It was an action born of paranoia and fear and now maintained purely out of habit.

The landing and stairwell were empty much to Draco's relief. His dragon-hide boots clicked on the stone floor. The sound made Draco rather edgy or was that just the unnerving silence that surrounded him whenever he paused?

The pub was relatively quiet. The few patrons looked up when he entered the dingy bar. Their eyes rested on his blonde hair and arrogant stance, immediately recognising him as a Malfoy. Just as they had done the previous night, the whispers began again. Tom leaned forwards, wiping down the bar with brusque strokes as though merely having a Malfoy in the bar had infected every surface with a ubiquitous malevolence. He didn't engage Draco in conversation like he would normally have done with his other guests.

Draco slipped through the bar to the alley beyond and then through the hidden entrance into Diagon Alley. It was busy. A whirlwind of activity. Everywhere he looked he saw young witches and wizards dragging their parents along, eagerly snapping up everything they needed for a new year at Hogwarts.

There was an air of merriment and joy that hadn't been felt by the Wizarding world for too long, although underneath still lurked that ever present sense of loss.

Draco strode purposefully down the street. He stopped at Gringotts and accessed the Malfoy Family vault. The goblin that served him stared at him suspiciously when he handed his key over for inspection. Draco shifted uneasily under its piercing gaze and was grateful when they reached the safe darkness of the wild rollercoaster ride.

The door to the family vault loomed before him after a short while. It was a heavy, wooden and metal door, re-enforced by countless layers of goblin magic. But the brass plate displaying the vault number and the Malfoy crest was bright and shiny, even after all the centuries it had existed down here in the darkness.

Once upon a time, Draco had needed a letter of approval from his father just to set foot in here, but now he surveyed the vast fortune with a proud smirk. Every single Knut, Sickle and Galleon was his.

But later when Draco walked through Diagon Alley's crowded, twisted streets, wizards and witches avoided him, hurried their children away, sent looks of pure, undisguised hatred at him, and Draco wondered for the first time in his life, whether having a full money purse was worth the fear, hatred and disgust that accompanied the Malfoy fortune and the Malfoy name.

He nipped that thought sharply in the bud. He was a pureblood Slytherin. It wouldn't do to go around thinking like some pathetic little Hufflepuff. He straightened his robes and strode into Flourish and Blotts.

He was served by a timid young wizard with dirty blonde hair and a nervous smile. He would have been a few years older than Draco, but his hands were shaking as he tried desperately to perform his duty without having to look into Draco's eyes. Draco sneered but he felt ill as he swept out of the shop, his books tucked firmly under his arm.

He fled back to the Leaky Cauldron, pushing his way through the throng of busy shoppers. He hated himself for being so cowardly, for not being able to withstand their accusing looks. But he was, he reasoned, a Slytherin not a bloody Gryffindor. Self-preservation was right up there with ambition on the Slytherin list of priorities.

Draco reached the relative safety of the Leaky Cauldron, unscathed. He had thankfully missed the lunch time rush hour and the pub was once more fairly empty. He pushed through the smoky air, making for the staircase and the security of his room.

As he approached the stairs, a jolly group emerged from the private room next door. They reached the entrance to the stairwell at the same time. Draco regarded the hoard of redheads and stepped back unconsciously. Eight pairs of eyes stared him, and for a brief moment Draco felt two inches tall. They're just Weasleys, he told himself sternly, just a penniless rabble. Oh, and the mudblood, can't forget the ever-present mudblood.

Draco surveyed the group with a critical eye until his gaze came to rest on a lone figure at the back of the group. For several moments, he just stared at Potter, holding his gaze. And with a sickening jolt, Draco realised that there was something different about this Potter. It took him several moments to pinpoint the change. It was his eyes; they were… dead. They held no emotion… no hatred… just nothing. And it was like looking into a mirror.

Draco fought the urge to run. He wasn't supposed to identify with Potter. He just was supposed to ignore him, pretend he didn't even exist. He could feel his mask of cool disregard beginning to slip.

Suddenly he became aware of the fact that someone was talking to him. No wait, shouting at him. He tore his eyes away from Potter. The Weasley matriarch was yelling. Her fists were clenched at her side and her face was red with anger. Her Muggle-loving husband was fighting to restrain her, and behind them, three sons and a daughter were glaring at him. The Weasel looked apoplectic as he stared at his hated schoolyard enemy and for the briefest of moments Draco actually believed that spontaneous human combustion was possible.

And all the while Mrs Weasley was still spitting her undisguised hatred at him. Her words bounced off Draco's protective armour, failing to pierce through to his heart. He tuned out her words, staring through her with a bored expression. Finally the tirade ended as she paused to draw breath.

"Are you finished?" Draco asked with false politeness. Mrs Weasley stared at him, gasping for breath, and nodded dumbly before she could stop herself. "Good, well if you'll just excuse me then," Draco drawled, drawing himself up to his full height. He pushed through their ranks, knocking Weasley roughly aside, and strode haughtily up the steps. He could feel their eyes on his back and resisted the urge to look back.

**.oO0Oo.**

Harry watched as Malfoy disappeared up the stairs. Around him, the Weasleys were muttering in anger and Hermione was resting her hand against Harry's forearm in what he supposed was meant to be reassurance.

Harry felt an overwhelming sense of disappointment well up inside him. He had been hoping, even expecting, that seeing Malfoy again would spark some feeling inside him like it has almost done the night before. This numbness was excruciating and right now, feeling anger and pain would be better than feeling nothing at all.

He had seen the cold, bored expression fixed on Malfoy's face, a look he knew well from previous years at Hogwarts, but when he had looked into Malfoy's eyes he hadn't seen that familiar hatred and disgust that he was used to seeing. Malfoy's grey eyes had been dull and jaded. He looked the way Harry felt, and that had been an unsettling realisation… one that he wasn't really sure he was prepared to face just at this moment.

He waited at the bottom of the stairs with the twins and Mr and Mrs Weasley while Ron, Ginny and Hermione rushed up to their rooms to collect their book lists. Fred and George were joking nastily about the things they would do to Malfoy if they had full reign and access to some of their more dangerous tricks, and Mr Weasley was massaging his wife's shoulders soothingly. Mrs Weasley's hands were still shaking and she looked rather shell-shocked.

Malfoy had been present for the briefest of moments but he had drawn such a severe reaction from the rest of the assembled group and yet Harry's emotions were left untouched. He suddenly felt very tired and his head was beginning to throb, signalling an impending headache.

Hermione and the youngest Weasleys appeared a moment later, and Harry felt himself being swept up and away through the pub towards Diagon Alley. He removed himself from the group politely but firmly. Mrs Weasley turned to look at him, concern evident in her eyes.

"Are you alright, Harry, love?" she asked, worried.

"I'm fine, Mrs Weasley. Just a bit of a headache. I think I'll skip the shopping… have a lie down instead."

Mrs Weasley immediately pressed her hand to his forehead and then each of his cheeks, searching his face for other signs of illness. "Yes, you do look a little pale," she fussed.

Harry fished his money bag and list out of his pocket, pressing them into Hermione's hands. "Will you get my books for me?" he asked her.

She nodded. "Of course, Harry," she said instantly.

He smiled at her gratefully. "I'll see you at dinner," he said, waving his hand in the general direction of the private room where they had just had their lunch.

"Alright," Mrs Weasley gave him a gentle push towards the stairs. "You take it easy, love."

Ron clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder, squeezing slightly. "See you later, mate," he enthused before linking hands with Hermione and disappearing out into the street after his family.

And then Harry was alone in the bar. Tom and the few patrons smiled at him. One witch approached him, pen and paper in hand. Harry's stomach lurched at the thought of giving autographs. He stumbled backwards and then escaped into the peace of the dark stairwell.

Back in his room, Harry lay down on his bed, not even bothering to remove his shoes. Hedwig was curled up on her perch in the corner. She had opened one sleepy eye as he entered, before settling back into slumber. Harry closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of the cool, soft sheets beneath him. And before long, Hedwig was not the only one sleeping soundly.

Harry drifted slowly back into consciousness. His head had stopped pounding and for the first time in several months, he felt calm and rested. He struggled up into a seated position, rubbing his slightly bleary eyes. It was nearly six o'clock. Harry swung his legs over the side of his bed and sat for several moments, perched there, mustering the strength to go downstairs and face the Weasleys for dinner.

He locked the door to his room behind him and set off down the dimly-lit corridor, his fingertips brushing lightly against the rough walls in a strangely reassuring act. His head was down, following the progress of his feet on the floor. He looked up just as he approached the stairs.

**.oO0Oo.**

Draco Malfoy had just stepped onto the landing. His venture down into the pub in search of dinner had proved a rather spectacular mistake. He could still feel those eyes boring into him. He clenched his jaw angrily, wondering what on earth had possessed him to come back to England. He should have stayed in France; at least there he was spared the hateful looks, the unsubtle Death Eater accusations.

Ah, but you were a Death Eater, a rather nasty little voice whispered in the back of his mind. You're not innocent in all of this.

A faint shuffling sound drew his attention away from what he supposed was his conscience, something he had thought he had managed to destroy years ago. Potter was slowly trundling down the corridor towards him. His head was bowed, his face hidden behind that ugly shock of black hair.

He was little than a metre away from Draco before he finally looked up. Their eyes met and for several moments they just stared at each other. Draco felt a strange pressure against his temples as he looked into the piercing green eyes that weren't quite hidden behind glasses. It was as though he was seeing Potter for the first time.

The hair was the same. Slightly longer but no less wild and Draco wondered idly whether Potter even owned a brush. And the glasses were different. Thinner and more mature than the geeky round pair Draco was used to seeing. The familiar lightning-bolt scar was still there, but it seemed smaller somehow. Fainter, lighter, a faded scar from a long-since passed event.

But the past couple of years had changed the Gryffindor in more significant ways just as they had changed Draco. The Boy-Who-Lived was slightly stockier now. Still lean by normal standards, but he had lost that skinny, little-boy look. His shoulders were broader and he had grown; Draco noted with some satisfaction that he himself still held the height advantage. Potter's features had hardened, and he now looked more like a man than a boy. He wasn't exactly handsome, regardless of what witches magazines enthused, but he did possess a sense of self that was distinctly attractive; he was charismatic without even trying.

But now, hidden behind the carefully cultivated hero-image, Draco's well-trained eye could just discern the real Potter in those piercing green eyes; they screamed of pain and loss and sadness. The image of Potter chained to that dungeon wall flashed before Draco's eyes, jolting him back to reality. He struggled to fix an appropriate sneer on his pointed face.

**.oO0Oo.**

Harry stared back into those grey eyes, somehow unable to move under their unwavering gaze. Malfoy's face was devoid of any emotion, but something was flickering behind his eyes as though he was lost in thought. Suddenly, Malfoy's lips twisted into a small but definite sneer, an expression that failed to reach his eyes. But Harry didn't notice that.

Instantly he was filled with an overwhelming sense of anger. It came out of nowhere, consuming Harry's entire body. He felt the sudden rush as his heart beat increased in rage. He was taken aback at the sudden intensity of his feelings. After months of not feeling anything, he was now gripped by an emotion so powerful he felt strangely invincible.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?" Harry spat incredulously, clenching his fists against his side.

The sneer slide from Malfoy's face, replaced once more by that cold, expressionless mask. He just stared at Harry as though looking right through him. For a moment, it looked like Malfoy was about to say something. Harry could almost see the vicious diatribe on his thin lips, but then he seemed to pull himself back. He stepped forwards and brushed past Harry.

Before he could stop himself, Harry had reached out and grabbed Malfoy's sleeve, whirling him around. Again their eyes met and confronted by those dull grey eyes, Harry suddenly felt his anger abating. He desperately tried to hold onto those feelings and the way he felt overwhelmingly alive when the emotions surged through him, but it was too late. They were gone and he felt empty again.

His shoulders slumped. Malfoy gave him a last searching look before turning away. Harry sighed and turned to go down the stairs. As he twisted, his heel caught on the hem of his too long trousers. He slipped, falling heavily against the wooden railing running across the gap between the top of the stairs and the wall.

There was a sickening crunch as the wood cracked under his weight. Suddenly he was falling backwards, scrabbling frantically. His wand slipped from his pocket and he heard it clatter on the stone floor below.

His heart was pounding in his chest. He was hanging from the edge by his fingertips. He felt a hopeless chuckle well up in his throat. How ironic that he should survive the most feared Dark Wizard only to fall to his death in the stairwell of the Leaky Cauldron.

He tried to haul himself back up over the edge, his muscles straining under the dead weight of his body. Suddenly as he looked up, Draco Malfoy loomed over him. Harry winced internally. He felt stupid and pathetic, hanging here on the verge of slipping and staring up at a calm and collected Malfoy.

For a split second, Harry considered appealing to Malfoy for help. It was a fleeting thought though, and he stared up into those blank grey eyes, stubbornly refusing to beg for the help of an enemy.

Slowly, Malfoy lent down towards him and extended on hand. For several moments Harry just stared at the offered hand, confusion reigning in his mind.

"Do you trust me?" Malfoy asked, his voice quiet but clear.

The voice and the words echoed in Harry's mind and suddenly the dam blocking all of his lost memories broke. Every image and sensation that drifted away when he woke came flooding back. Harry's eyes widened in realisation as he stared up at Malfoy.

Instinctively, Harry's fingers let go of the edge and gripped Malfoy's hand. He felt himself being hauled upwards. He scrambled to pull himself up over the ledge and stumbled forwards onto his knees.

He paused there on his hands and knees as his breathing became regulated again and his heart beat slowed. He wasn't sure he could bring himself to look up. He wasn't sure what he'd see, whether he was ready to consider the implications.

He could feel Malfoy's gaze on the back of his neck, an uncomfortable prickling sensation spreading across his skin. When he eventually did look up, he was instantly taken back to the last time he had been before Malfoy on his knees. Only this time there was no Death Eater mask obscuring Malfoy's identity and Harry was able to stare up into those bottomless silver eyes. Harry shivered in spite of himself.

Malfoy was just standing there, hands in his pockets, looking calmly, dispassionately down at the Gryffindor before him. Harry stared back wildly. His mind was a whirl of memories and thoughts and questions. He felt lost and confused. If there had been one thing that he thought he could always be certain of in this world, it was that he and Malfoy hated each other and would always be enemies. He felt as though the ground had just slipped out from under his feet.

Snape had reluctantly told Harry that he had been rescued by an anonymous Death Eater, but he had refused to reveal anything more. Harry had tried pleading, shouting and even threats, but Snape was resolute and from then on, Harry had assumed he would go to his grave still not knowing who had saved him that night.

Harry shook his head, feeling like his mind was going to implode from the overload. How could Malfoy and that Death Eater be the same person? It didn't make sense. Malfoy was evil; he was just like his father… why would he help Harry?

Harry got heavily to his feet, straightening up under Malfoy's watchful gaze. Harry felt uncomfortable and disorientated. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but just then a shrill cry pierced through the silence.

"HARRY?" Hermione called from downstairs. The sounds of footsteps on stairs followed a moment later.

Harry was jolted out of his confusion, and he suddenly realised that every preconceived idea that he had about Malfoy need to be re-evaluated. He wanted, no…needed to talk to Malfoy, but now the Slytherin was stepping back. "They're calling you," Malfoy stated, nodding towards the stairs. His face betrayed no emotion and Harry wondered how he did that.

Harry watched, dumbfounded as Malfoy drew his wand and with a quick swish repaired the broken banister. "Accio wand," his voice was soft but unwavering and possessed just a hint of the former arrogance it had once held. Harry's wand flew up the stairs and into Malfoy's outstretched hand. He tossed the retrieved wand carelessly towards Harry, who caught it nimbly, his fingers curling around the familiar smooth wood.

And then Malfoy was walking away as though nothing had happened. There were no explanations, no revelations, just… nothing. Harry raised his hand helplessly, trying to get his voice to work. His hand grasped at thin air and he realised with shock that this was the same gesture he made that night as Malfoy had flown away.

Harry waited but Malfoy didn't turn back. He disappeared into the room one down from Harry's without so much as a backward glance. Harry stood for several moments in the corridor, trying to process what had just happened.

A second cry pierced his daze. "HARRY?" Hermione's voice was closer now, on the landing just below. As if on autopilot, Harry turned and descended the stairs, but by the time he reached the ground floor he was once again lost in a barrage of thoughts.

It was only when he had sunk into his chair beside Ron that he realised that he was feeling again. Emotions and thoughts flowed through his entire body. It was a shock to realise that for the first time in so long he actually felt alive.

The emptiness was gone and somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry registered that Malfoy had been the cause. He wasn't sure if this should be regarded as a good thing or a bad thing and he wasn't even sure if he wanted this to be something he was going to accept. In the end, he merely shrugged and asked Ron to pass him the gravy.

* * *

**Author's Notes: Well, that's Chapter 2 over and done with. Hopefully I'll have some time soon to start on the next chapter. Exam time is approaching and so I'm trying to juggle study, work, this fic and my Gundam Wing fic all at the same time… but I'll try not to keep you all waiting too long – I'll just have to learn to be a juggler extraordinaire.**

**Right, so THANK-YOUs must go to the following for reviewing. I love you all and deeply appreciate the contact: ****ShiNoShinigami****, WhyteRose-28, Everwinter, stardust, Emerald Thorn, Keeyan, BCP   
****Memeal**** – **Oh, you say the nicest things. Your reviews (for this fic and for my Gundam Wing fic) are some of my favourites. I'm thrilled you like my writing and I hope I'll be able to live up to your expectations. Thank you so much!   
**Fantastic Mr Foxkins – **I'm glad to have drawn your attention, now I just have to keep it (something tells me that'll be the hard part). And I'm thrilled that I'm not alone in think of Dumbledore as a bit of a master manipulator. Thanks for reviewing.   
**SanSaru** – Don't worry, I won't over-exert myself. Glad to have your interest. I 'let' Draco become a Death Eater because it seemed more in character – I mean, let's face it, he's definitely heading that way. But I still think he's redeemable. Thanks.   
**Sak** – I'm glad you think Draco's not as OCC as he could be, I'll take that as a compliment. I hope you enjoy the rest of the fic, cheers for reviewing.   
**Kilikapele** – Glad you like. And I'll try and keep all the chapters this long, but I make no promises.

**Right, that's it. So, this is the point where you all decide to take pity on a poor little fanfic writer like me and review… please?**


	3. Chapter Three

Title: Do You Trust Me?   
Author: Prynesque   
Genre: Yaoi/slash, romance, angst   
Pairing: Harry/Draco   
Rated: R   
Warnings: Potential (though unintended) OOC, some swearing, slash, alternating POV, possible Australian-isms.   
Feedback: Hell yeah? What I'm trying to say is that if you feel the urge to review, please indulge it. I don't even care what you say. Good, bad, it's all the same to me – just so long as I get to hear from you.   
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy… they are copywrited to someone else. They are being used without permission and no money is being made. I reiterate: they aren't mine (and if you think they are you should probably take this opportunity to get your head checked). However, this story is mine and mine alone, and if you so much as think of nicking any part of it, I'll hunt you down and set my demon kitty cat on you (be afraid, be very afraid).   
Notes: This story is set following the downfall of Voldemort in Harry and Draco's final year at Hogwarts. This story is also slash (or yaoi or whatever you want to call it), so if you don't like that… well, bugger off and come back when you have some taste!

**Author's Notes: I'm so terribly so that I've taken so long to put this chapter out – bad author! But to be fair, I have been inordinately busy… well, OK, a mixture of busy and lazy (but more on the busy side, I swear! Oh, who am I kidding?)**

**Say, does anyone else find the commerciality of Christmas as nauseating as me? I mean, the other day I was in the shopping mall and I was harassed by three overly perky, smiling blondes dressed as elves and wearing twee santa hats and asking me whether I had bought my mother that space-age contraption that whips, froths, blends and mixes (and possibly does the washing as well) that she's always wanted. If they were truly servants of the jolly fat man, they would know that if anyone tried to give my mother one of those things, she'd probably hit them over the head with it and then stick it somewhere unmentionable. Ack! Can't they let me shop in peace without trying to foist useless bits of machinery on me? And while I'm complaining, is it really necessary to start decorating stores with plastic Christmas trees in bloody September? Humph! (Feel free to address all my mail to Scrooge).   
****Eeep****, I'm sorry about that – I thought I'd gotten over all my anti-capitalist sentiments… apparently not. Please, pay no attention to anything I say – I'm obviously crazy. Now go read this chapter and ignore the loopy woman in the corner. **

**.oO0Oo.**** signals change of POV**

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* * *

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**Do You Trust Me?**

Chapter Three:

"Idiot!" Draco spat, kicking the first thing that came to hand which just happened to be his trunk. It shot across the tiny room, connecting with the end of the bed and upending its contents all over the floor.

Draco cursed again. He went to reach for his wand but changed his mind halfway through the movement, throwing himself into the nearest chair instead.

The chair groaned under his sudden weight but Draco ignored it, letting his head fall back against the head rest and closing his eyes.

After several minutes of tense silence, Draco's eyes opened again. "Why the fuck did I just do that?!?" he asked the empty room. The mirror tittered and muttered something inaudible. Draco's fingers twitched with the urge to hurl something hard and solid at the blasted thing.

"I should have let him fall," Draco muttered fiercely. As soon as the words left his mouth, he laughed; it was a harsh, bitter sound that lingered in the air long after he had closed his mouth again. That was a lie and he knew it. He wouldn't have let Potter fall.

Perhaps once upon a time, not that long ago, he would have relished seeing his hated enemy in that position; the 15 year old Draco Malfoy would have wanted nothing more than to see Harry Potter fall to a painful and nasty death.

But however much Draco would have liked to pretend that he hadn't changed _that_ much in the last few years, that the night in the dungeons had been a one off, a fluke, a rare incident never to be repeated, when it came right down to it, he had changed, for better or worse, and something had compelled him to hold out his hand to Potter once more.

He had looked over that ledge and Potter had looked so pathetic, so defeated, like he'd just given up and accepted his tragic, inevitable death in the Leaky Cauldron stairwell, that not only had Draco been overcome by the instinct to reach out to him, he hadn't even been able to bring himself to taunt the poor guy a bit before helping him.

The look in those hauntingly green eyes had immediately taken him back to that night in the dungeons. That same look of pain, fear, confusion, surprise… Draco had extended his hand automatically before he could even stop to think about it.

But it was not the fact that he had helped Potter that was torturing him, it was those four little words that had somehow managed to escape his mouth. They still echoed in his mind, taunting him, and now undoubtedly they were ringing in Potter's ears as well, spiriting them both back to that night. Do you trust me? What had possessed him to say that? What twisted part of his sub-conscious actually wanted Potter to know that it had been him that night?

He slammed his fist down on the table beside his chair. The wood creaked threateningly and then a jagged crack split the worn oak.

Draco sighed in frustration and reached for his wand. The deep fracture knitted itself together again with a simple whispered restoration spell and then Draco waved his wand in the direction of his trunk and watched, unseeingly, as his belongings picked themselves up of the floor and tucked themselves neatly back into their proper places.

So, Potter knew, that much was clear. The moment Draco had opened his mouth, those green eyes had widened with recognition; Potter had put two and two together and, Gryffindor brains or lack thereof not withstanding, he had managed to come up with four.

"I knew coming back to England was a bad idea," Draco muttered sullenly to the empty room. The mirror tittered again. "I'd be willing to risk seven years of bad luck," Draco threatened icily. The laugh abruptly morphed into a nervous hacking cough and then mirror wisely chose to lapse into silence.

For several moments quiet enveloped the room broken only occasionally by the gentle crackling of the fire. Draco exhaled sharply, expelling the air in his lungs in a swift gust as he sank back into his chair once more. His fingers released their grip on the smooth pliable wood of his wand, letting it to fall down to the newly mended table top with a clatter.

He groaned and allowed himself a brief indulgent moment of self-pity, chewing morosely on his bottom lip. It was a bad-habit that he had forced himself to outgrow years ago, but still managed to return unconsciously in times of stress or distraction when the meticulous self-policing of his behaviour that characterised his every move was momentarily forgotten. He stopped abruptly as soon as he became aware of what he was doing, frowning.

He sighed heavily. That's two from two, he thought to himself. This rescuing business was becoming something of a nasty habit.

**.oO0Oo.**

Two floors below in the dining room, Harry stared down, unseeing, as Tom set a plate in front of him. It might have been roast chicken, but to be perfectly honest Harry wasn't paying attention and probably wouldn't have noticed if he'd been served a hippogriff.

His mind simply wouldn't focus on anything but Malfoy. Do you trust me? That slow drawl whispered in his ears almost as though the ghost of Malfoy was standing right behind him. Harry suddenly fancied that he could feel the warmth of Malfoy's breath against the back of his neck. He whirled around, staring wildly at the patch of thin air existing innocuously behind his chair.

Ron nudged him, his eyebrows raised slightly; it was an expression asked 'are you alright?' whilst also managing to convey the sense that Ron was beginning to worry about his friend's sanity. Harry turned back to the table abruptly. He didn't meet Ron's gaze and after a moment or two the redhead shrugged and reached for his fork.

A minute later, Ron articulated the sentiments of his previous look, evidently worried enough to just double check. "Feeling better, mate?" he asked casually, his mouth still full of mashed potato.

Mrs Weasley and Hermione tutted in unison; neither actually said "Don't talk with your mouth full," but it was clear that they were both thinking it. Ron rolled his eyes, swallowed and then asked again.

Harry dragged his eyes away from his plate to stare into Ron's cheerful eyes. "Hmm?" he responded, rather unintelligently.

"Are you feeling better, mate?" Ron repeated very slowly as though he were speaking to a very small child.

Harry felt torn; he was simultaneously touched and smothered by Ron's concern. "Oh, yeah… fine. Had a good sleep… just what I needed," he finally replied, tacking a smile automatically on the end of his sentence.

Ron looked momentarily doubtful but then decided not to push the issue. Instead, he simply smiled at Harry and turned back to his dinner with great gusto. Mrs Weasley winced as tiny flecks of gravy splattered over the white lace tablecloth but chose to keep any noises of displeasure to herself this time.

Harry smiled again and for the first time in too long, it actually felt like there was some depth of feeling behind the gesture. It wasn't like the flood gates had been flung open wide again, but a small, steady stream of emotion was beginning to flow, or at least trickle.

It was as though that brief interaction with Malfoy had unlocked some distant doorway in Harry's mind and slowly, emotions were slipping out and allowing him to feel again. At that moment, sitting at the dinner table surrounded by the Weasleys and Hermione, he felt… well, not happy exactly, but more comfortable, with them, with himself, with life.

And it was a start. He picked up his fork and turned back to his dinner. He smiled a tiny half-smile. He had been right. It _was_ roast chicken.

It was a smaller group this evening. Just Mr and Mrs Weasley, Ron, Hermione and Ginny. And me, Harry added as an after thought.

Bill had remained home with Fleur. She could be quite insistent when she wanted to be, and had no qualms about reeling in the leash. Harry would have felt sorry for Bill, if he didn't know that the eldest Weasley son was more than capable of holding his own against his part-Veela girlfriend. After all, he had had plenty of experience growing up resisting the indomitable Mrs Weasley.

The twins had remained in Diagon Alley. No doubt Mrs Weasley had tried every trick in the book from demanding to guilt to bribery, to try and get them to come to dinner this evening, and Harry was rather impressed that Fred and George had still managed to resist. Mrs Weasley paused, mid-bite, to frown at the empty spaces at the end of the table where the twins would have sat. Mr Weasley patted her arm gently and she continued chewing.

And Charlie was back in Romania with his precious dragons. Harry's fork fell back to his plate with a clatter. Dragons… Draco… Malfoy. He almost laughed. That was the first time he'd ever made the connection. A brief but vivid image of Malfoy sprouting leathery bat-like wings and breathing fire flashed in his mind.

Harry felt his lips quirk into a smile and shook his head slightly as Ron and Hermione turned to look at him with something akin to concern in their eyes.

"Harry?" Hermione asked immediately, reaching across Ron to lay one hand on Harry's arm.

This time a chuckle did actually escape his lips. "Oh, nothing. Just thought of something funny," he said, picking up his fork again and spearing a carrot.

"Oh yeah, what?" Ron swallowed carefully before asking and Hermione smiled.

"Forget it, it's stupid. You wouldn't get it," Harry replied with a casual wave of his hand. Harry's funny little episode was forgotten about as Ron and Hermione returned to their dinners and Harry leant across the table to ask Ginny what she had chosen to study this year at Hogwarts.

"They're starting an introductory class for people wanting to go on and study magical medicine. I've signed up for that. I think I'd rather like to be mediwitch. After the war and…" she trailed off abruptly and Harry knew that she, like him, was remembering the frantic hustle and bustle of the overworked mediwizards who worked throughout the war, tending to the ever-growing number of wounded. Beside Harry, Hermione frowned pointedly across the table at the younger girl.

"Well, it just seemed interesting and… helpful," Ginny finished finally. She was pale and mortified beneath her freckles and looked up at Harry through her eyelashes with their air of someone who has raised a topic that she'd been told to avoid.

But then her eyebrows drew together ever so slightly in a half-frown; she appeared to be rethinking her reaction to her supposed faux-pas. When she straightened up it was clear that she had reached a different conclusion. She raised her chin defiantly to Hermione and met Harry's eyes as though signalling to the table and to herself that she had had enough of censoring herself in regards to the war, that she accepted the past and was willing to leave it there and move on.

Harry smiled across at her, glad that someone had decided to stop walking on eggshells around him when it came to the war. He was tired of being treated like he would break if anyone mentioned the past.

"That sounds good. I'm sure they'd be thrilled to have you at St. Mungo's," Harry said, before taking a mouthful of chicken.

The colour returned to Ginny's cheek in abundance. "Thanks, Harry. I hope so." She reached for her goblet and took a long drink, still blushing at the compliment.

Harry swallowed and then paused. It suddenly struck him that Ginny had grown up. He was used to thinking of her as the little girl who had run back upstairs that very first morning she had woken to find Harry Potter in the kitchen of the Burrow. But she was an adult now, eighteen years old and with a past of her own.

He had never really talked to her about that night in the Chamber of Secrets, of her encounter with Lord Voldemort; he had always been afraid of upsetting her. It was a shock to realise that everyone was now treating him the same way.

She smiled at him across the table and he returned it. She was more perceptive, more spirited, and more mature than anyone really gave her credit for. Harry came to the conclusion that he would have to try and amend that but then he turned back to his chicken and decided that perhaps he would start tomorrow.

Harry couldn't sleep that night. He tried everything. He counted sheep and then Hippogriffs. He read. He jogged on the spot and then did 23 and a half push-ups. He even tried to remember some of Professor Binns' more boring lecturers on the Goblin rebellions. But every time he closed his eyes, he remembered more and more about that night. It was as though his dreams were playing before his eyes, despite his conscious state.

They started with the sound of Malfoy's voice… _Do you trust me?_... followed by the sensation of Malfoy's hand in his and Malfoy's arm around his waist, half leading, half carrying him out into the cool breeze…

But then the visions morphed into something altogether more frightening and Harry was alone in the dungeon with the other Death Eater. In his large, warm bed in the Leaky Cauldron, Harry shivered as he remembered that cold, hollow laugh… the desperate, crippling pain of the curses.

The sight of long blonde hair and porcelain white skin sprawled on the cold stone floor flashed before his eyes. Lucius Malfoy, Harry realised with a jolt. Harry wondered vaguely whether Malfoy had known that the Death Eater had been his father before he hexed him, and if he hadn't, what he had then felt the moment he realised what he had done.

The shivers returned, unbidden. Do you trust me? The voice asked again. Harry groaned aloud in frustration. He'd had enough. He threw back the covers and clambered out of bed. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet, but it didn't occur to Harry to put his slippers on.

His hands groped in the darkness, finally finding an old Weasley jumper draped haphazardly over the back of a chair. He pulled it on over his pyjama top and turned to leave the room. He had just reached the door and had one hand on the brass knob when he paused and backtracked to retrieve his wand from the bedside table.

The war was over but Harry rather suspected that he would never be able to go anywhere without his wand ever again. There was a tinge of paranoia, desperation, fear that he suspected would be with him forever.

Shoving the wand into his pyjama pocket, he closed the door as quietly as he could. He wandered down the corridor, past Ron and Hermione's rooms. He momentarily considered waking one or both of them. But what would he say? 'Sorry to wake you but I've been reliving scary memories of being tortured… oh, and it turns out that Malfoy isn't really evil at all?' No, he didn't think that would go down too well.

He continued his silent meander, finally coming to a stop at the top of the stairs. He ran his fingers along the smooth wood of the banister. Malfoy's restoration job was flawless; it was impossible to tell that just hours earlier the whole thing had been lying in cracked pieces in the stairwell below.

Harry paused for several moments, one hand on the railing, the other hanging limply by his side. He turned to look back down the corridor. The far window looked tiny in the distance; the outside streetlamp shining through looked like little more than a twinkling star.

He walked slowly back down the corridor, his bare feet padding on the cold stonework. He passed his own door and kept walking. He stopped again when he reached the room Malfoy was staying in.

For the briefest of moments he considered raising his hand and knocking. But again, what would he say? What could he possibly say? 'Thank you' seemed too trite while 'why' threatened to open up a whole can of worms that he wasn't sure he was ready to face.

He exhaled and the sound was louder than he had been expecting, halfway between a sigh and a groan. It seemed to echo in the darkness and he froze and then stepped back hurriedly. It would be just his luck if Malfoy suddenly opened the door and found his former enemy lurking outside it in the corridor. His stomach lurched uncomfortably at the thought of the look that would no doubt reside on Malfoy's pointed face.

His feet continued their slow tour of the corridor until they reached the end and could go no further. Instead of turning and walking back, he leant forwards and rested his arms on the window sill, looking out through grimy glass to the dark and empty street below. He bent further forwards and rested his forehead against the cool glass before turning his head to the side.

Immediately to his right there was a door, tucked away at the very end of the corridor and almost hidden in the shadows. There was no brass number plate on this door, so Harry presumed that whatever lay behind it was something other than just another bedroom. Its frame was smaller than the previous doors and it was the sort of thing that would be easy to miss if one wasn't specifically looking for it.

Harry stepped forwards and laid one hand on the rough wooden door knob, and then twisted it. The door swung open surprisingly easy considering its apparent age. A narrow, rickety-looking staircase lay beyond leading up into the gloom.

Without stopping to give it a second thought, Harry gripped the banister and began to climb. The stairs creaked ominously but Harry continued upwards regardless. When he reached the top he turned the door handle and the door swung open with a loud creak.

The cool night air rushed forwards to meet him as he stepped out onto the tiny balcony. The first thing he saw was the dark winding streets of Muggle London criss-crossing beneath a misty grey sky. The rain had stopped, but a hint of dampness still lingered in the air.

The second thing he saw was a figure sitting on the edge of the terrace, legs dangling over the side and swinging gently in the cool breeze.

Harry's first instinct was to turn around and go back down those stairs, but before he knew what he was doing he was closing the door behind him and stepping forwards to sit down.

Malfoy's blonde head was bowed slightly. A lit cigarette rested between pale, delicate fingers, a thin trail of smoke disappearing into the darkness. He didn't move to acknowledge Harry's presence; he just remained perfectly still, staring down at the gloomy pavement below.

Malfoy was still dressed and had his cloak draped around his shoulders. His sturdy dragon-hide boots clicked together occasionally as his legs swung backwards and forwards.

Harry felt suddenly awkward, sitting there with bare feet in his pyjamas and a slightly small, worn Weasley jumper, adorned with a rather embarrassingly twee picture of a lion. Regardless of having matured many years ago, of having fought in a war and having saved the world, Harry suddenly felt as though Malfoy had the monopoly on being all grown-up while he remained the little boy in the shabby clothes who had first seen his blonde counterpart through the window of Madam Malkin's.

There was a gap of about a foot between them, but it felt strangely cramped to Harry, as though they were almost pressed right up against each other. He fancied he could almost feel the warmth of Malfoy's thigh pressing against his.

He slowly became aware of the silence that enveloped them. It wasn't exactly awkward but it was a little heavy, hanging like some foreboding storm cloud in the air between them, leaving Harry with the urge to break it if only to see whether the ominous cloud would lift or whether it was a phenomenon that would always be present simply because of who the protagonists were. But he simply couldn't, for the life of him, think of anything to say. Earlier, lying in bed, a million and one questions had flown through his head as he tried to imagine how this conversation with Malfoy would unfold. But now, sitting here beside him, Harry couldn't remember a single one.

For several moments they just sat side by side in silence, and slowly the cloud did begin to fade, even without words; it didn't dissipate altogether, but the longer they sat there together, the more comfortable they each seemed to be with the situation, as though over the space of the ten minutes of silence, they managed to adjust and adapt to the other's presence.

By the time the fifteen minute mark passed, it was a surprisingly comfortable silence that hung between them, which struck Harry as strange considering the level of animosity that had once existed between them and possibly still did.

Slowly, Malfoy brought the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled. Harry watched, fascinated in spite of himself. The lit end glowed in the gloom. Malfoy's hand returned to his side, cigarette still burning innocuously. Smoke tumbled over Malfoy's lips, caught in the breeze and whisked out across the London landscape.

"I didn't know you smoked," Harry said, surprising himself. His voice sounded very loud and harsh as it split through the delicate silence and he suddenly felt overwhelmingly inarticulate and unsophisticated.

Malfoy continued to stare out into the darkness. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Potter," he said softly.

"They can kill you, you know," Harry commented as his brain simultaneously questioned what on earth possessed him to say that.

"Maybe that's part of the attraction," Malfoy replied.

Silence fell between them once more. Eventually Harry opened his mouth, shattering the quiet once more. "Why did you do it?" It wasn't the question he had intended to ask, but he didn't correct himself.

Malfoy turned his head slightly and looked Harry up and down with those calculating grey eyes. Finally he shrugged. "I don't know." Harry raised one eyebrow dubiously, clearly unconvinced.

Malfoy snorted. "No really, I don't know. One minute I was standing in the corridor hearing that you'd been caught, and then the next I was in the dungeons and my father was unconscious on the floor." He stopped and Harry waited patiently for him to continue. A slight breeze was stirring, lifting loose strands of Malfoy's silvery blonde hair. "I have no idea why I chose to help you when I had let so many others die. I don't know why it suddenly became personal with you."

Harry winced at those words… _when I had let so many others die_… he couldn't bring himself to ask what that meant; he didn't think he wanted to know. He rolled Malfoy's words around in his head again and for some inexplicable reason, a spark of anger flickered inside him. "Personal? What, you saw me chained to a dungeon wall and suddenly thought 'gee, I think I'll stop being an evil bastard now'?" The words came out harsher than Harry had intended but Malfoy didn't react; his face was expressionless, pale in the moonlight.

"Don't flatter yourself," Malfoy drawled, arching one eyebrow. "You were merely a catalyst that provoked me into acting upon feelings that already existed."

Once upon a time Harry would have felt belittled and irritated by the tone in Malfoy's voice, but in that moment he suddenly felt refreshed by it and instantly he felt his moment of anger abating. It had been a long time since he had pushed and someone had pushed him back.

It suddenly struck Harry that Malfoy didn't buy into all that Boy-Who-Lived shit and was, perhaps, the only person who had never done so; Malfoy refused to bow down to the image and the rhetoric of a hero that didn't exist. Whether it was out of jealousy or bigotry or whatever, didn't matter… the fact remained that he rejected the notion of kowtowing to a two-dimensional title. And Harry felt suddenly overwhelmingly grateful for that.

He supposed that that was the reason why he had felt so comfortable sitting in silence with Malfoy earlier. For those few minutes, for the first time ever, the labels of Boy-Who-Lived and Death Eater didn't exist; there was simply Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy sitting together on the roof of the Leaky Cauldron.

"Well, whatever the reason… thank you," Harry said simply. He winced as soon as the words left his mouth. He had been right; 'Thank you' did sound trite. He tore his gaze away from Malfoy's pale face to stare across the rooftops into the distance.

A few moment of silence stretched between them and when it was broken again, it was Malfoy who spoke. "I suppose _I_ should thank _you_. If you hadn't turned up needing rescuing I'd have stayed the dutiful Death Eater and would probably be dead or in Azkaban as we speak," he said, his voice perfectly emotionless.

"I guess we're even then," Harry suggested, shaking his head, slightly bewildered by the strange experience of having a conversation with someone he had hated for the better part of eight years.

"No… you still owe me for this evening." At first, Malfoy's voice was arrogant, holding a slight trace of the sneer Harry remembered, but then he turned and gave Harry a brief smile. It wasn't the sort of beaming grin he was used to receiving from Ron nor the kind, purposeful curve of Hermione's smile, but it was the first real smile Harry had ever seen grace Malfoy's lips; the first smile that wasn't at the expense of someone else; the first smile for the sake of smiling. It was a strange sight and certainly something Harry never thought he'd be privy to. Harry returned the smile, and for the first time in too long he felt like he meant it.

"This doesn't make us friends, Potter," Malfoy drawled, turning back to the cityscape.

"Of course not. You would never lower yourself to that level and I would never be that stupid," Harry replied glibly.

Malfoy turned to look at him sharply as he spoke those words, the half-compliment, half-insult, as though he was trying to figure him out. Eventually he rolled his eyes. "Naturally."

There was more silence before Harry worked up the courage to speak again. "Can I ask you something?"

"You just did," Malfoy said smugly, his lips twisting into a hint of a smirk.

This time it was Harry who rolled his eyes. "Fine. Can I ask you something else?"

"Alright," said Malfoy magnanimously.

"You said that I was just the motivation… so what made you… oh, I don't know… um, doubt, in the first place?" Harry bit his lip nervously after he finished speaking.

Malfoy appeared to be thinking and for a split second Harry wasn't sure he was going to answer. When he did, it caught Harry off guard. "Being a Death Eater… it wasn't what I was expecting it to be."

"What were you expecting it to be?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

"I don't know. Glorious? Just? Inspiring? All of the above? From birth my father spun me tales of how wonderful and powerful and great the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters were. I wanted that."

Harry was tempted to ask why he had wanted that, to ask how Malfoy could ever have managed to connect glory and justice with murdering Muggles in his mind, but decided, in the end, that perhaps they weren't ready for that conversation yet. "But it wasn't like that," he replied eventually. It wasn't a question but it wasn't quite a statement either.

Malfoy turned to look at him, his eyes unreadable. "No, it wasn't." There was a finality in his tone that told Harry that the subject was closed.

They sat together a while longer. The breeze started to pick up and Malfoy's hair escaped its tie and began to swirl gently around his face in the wind. He clicked his tongue irritated, gathering it up again and securing the tie in place once more.

Harry almost smiled at the action; for all Malfoy's pride and pomp, there was a slight air of the ridiculous about him sometimes. Harry had thought it as a young teenager but it was even more noticeable in the older Malfoy with his groomed style and grace. "Ponce," he muttered, more to himself that anything else.

Malfoy cast him a stony look in reply. "Better that than looking like I've just stepped out of a garbage bin," came the retort, accompanied by a rather disparaging glance at Harry's attire and hair. Harry shook his head exhaling. That felt more like the old Malfoy.

Silence descended again. Every so often Malfoy would raise the cigarette to his lips and take a drag. The cigarette was almost burnt to the end when Harry realised for the first time that every time Malfoy exhaled he angled his head away so that the smoke wouldn't blow into Harry's face. Harry was struck by this consideration; it seemed like such an un-Malfoy thing to do.

Malfoy flicked the remains of his cigarette over the edge and they both watched as it tumbled down to the pavement.

Slowly Harry became aware of how cold he was. The almost threadbare woollen jumper was poor protection from the biting wind and he was beginning to loose feeling in his feet.

"It's bloody freezing out here," he said, wrapping his arms around himself.

"Points to Gryffindor for stating the obvious," Malfoy sneered, but Harry sensed there was humour rather than spite behind the expression.

"Right, whatever, I'm going inside." He reached up to grasp the balcony railing. He placed one half-frozen hand on Malfoy's shoulder and hauled himself upwards. It was the sort of thing he would have done with Ron had he been sitting with him, and at that moment, it felt perfectly natural to do it with Malfoy as well. He shook his head in slight wonderment at this unusual turn of events; it felt as though this should be the point where Hell started freezing over.

He rubbed his hands together, and turned to leave. "'Night, Malfoy," he said as an afterthought.

He had walked through door and was about to close it behind him when he caught Malfoy's response. "Goodnight, Potter."

Harry smiled in the darkness and trudged down the stairs and back to bed. He crawled beneath the sheets and settled back against the soft pillow. Malfoy was an enigma. Every memory and assumption about the Slytherin told Harry that he was evil and nasty and shouldn't be approached without a wand and failing that, a sharp pointy object.

But now it was as though he'd been given a chance to reconsider those presumptions. It wasn't as though every preconceived notion had just been swept away and Harry was given a clean slate on which to build an impression of Draco Malfoy; no, the past memories of Malfoy's words and actions still lingered in his mind and would probably never go away, but he felt as though he had been given a new insight into the figure behind all of that. He was willing to accept that Malfoy may have changed just as he himself had changed.

Harry had found it frighteningly easy to talk to Malfoy given their past animosity. Before, he had been nothing more than a hated enemy, a persistent niggling itch that refused to leave him alone, but now he seemed to represent, in Harry's mind, a way forwards, a way out of the hole of emptiness Harry had found himself trapped in.

He thought briefly about Ron and Hermione. Although they were his best friends, since the beginning of the war he had found himself unable to talk to them. They wouldn't, couldn't understand him… they hadn't seen what he had, hadn't done what he had… they wouldn't understand the darkness that existed within him. He shivered suddenly.

But maybe Malfoy would. Harry recognised a darkness in himself that he also saw in Malfoy. They were both a curious and complex combination of dark and light… they were different and yet similar, simultaneously opposite and identical. Yes, maybe he would understand.

As Malfoy had said, they weren't friends, and they probably never would be, there was just too much history between them. But when Harry though about it, he didn't need another friend; he had plenty of friends to love him and support him… what he really needed was someone that he could talk to, someone that could help him find a balance between the lightness and the darkness.

He smiled. Someone he could argue with, debate with; someone who wouldn't treat him like glass, who wasn't afraid to counter him; someone who could ignite a spark of something more with him. And maybe by some bizarre turn of fate, that someone might just turn out to be Malfoy.

Harry laughed out loud. It sounded awkward and corny even to his mind. With all probability Malfoy would be in no way interested in fulfilling that role.

Harry frowned gently in the darkness, caught in a mixture of hope and resignation. He buried himself further into his doona and when he finally fell asleep, there were no dreams.

**.oO0Oo.**

Draco sat for a while after Potter had left. He too had begun to feel the cold but he withstood it in favour of spending just a few more moments in cold blackness of the night sky. He felt strangely at peace and so although the night air was cold, swirling around him and penetrating his cloak, he made no move to retreat inside.

Talking with Potter had been a very strange sensation. For so long Potter had been the bane of his existence, an irritating ever-present reminder of everything that supposed held Draco back… the light to his dark; but now with the memory of Potter's demeanour, his voice, the hollow look in his eyes, Draco began to realise that perhaps Potter wasn't as light as maybe he had once thought, as everyone else still seemed to think.

Draco frowned. He wasn't sure he was quite ready to accept that he and Potter might have something in common and yet, still a thought niggled at his mind: the experience of sharing the rooftop with Potter had been strange, but not unwelcome.

He thought back to the reception he'd received from the patrons of the Leaky Cauldron, from the Weasleys. In the safety of the empty black night, he was willing to admit, if only to himself, that he was rather tired of being treated like a pariah, like something that should be imprisoned or better yet exterminated.

Though he would never say so out loud, it had been somewhat refreshing, even pleasant, to have someone look at him, speak to him, with something other than disgust. Even if it was Potter.

All the while they had sat together, Draco had continually remembered past interactions… the burning hatred and animosity between them; the passionate fires of loathing that had been lit in their eyes every time they encountered each other in the hallway, in the classroom, on the Quidditch pitch. It was hard to imagine that anything else could ever exist between them.

But sitting beside Potter under stars… it felt like those were the memories of someone else, like he was merely privy to actions recorded in the penseive of someone else. And in a way, he supposed he was right. The Potter and Malfoy of the past evidently no longer existed in their original form, and so perhaps there was hope for the Potter and Malfoy of the present.

He had found it curiously easy to go from taunting Potter relentlessly to engaging in almost friendly banter with him. He had felt at ease with Potter and that was something that he wasn't used to feeling with anyone.

Draco had never really had anyone to talk to. His mother was cold and distant and the thought of trying to have a heart to heart with his father was laughable. He had had friends in Slytherin, but really to be perfectly honest, friendships in that house tended to be more like alliances than anything else… they certainly refrained from all the touchy-feely crap that the other houses seemed to go in for.

Draco paused and wondered whether he even knew how to be a friend. If he was being strictly truthful with himself, and this felt like the sort of moment where that was probably a good idea, he would have to say no. He had never been a friend before, though now he thought about it, if being a friend required him to become anything resembling that red-haired cretin that Potter insisted on calling a best friend, well Draco would rather drown himself in a bucket of Dragon piss.

No, it didn't seem likely that he and Potter would ever be friends but maybe, just maybe they could tolerate each other long enough to become something other than enemies.

Perhaps Potter would turn out to be someone Draco could talk to… In the first moment that Draco had seen Potter in the robe shop before their first year, he had known that there was something more to that skinny little runt with the abominable hair and piercing green eyes than met the eye and today, he still felt that Potter was not someone who could be deciphered with one quick glance… there were things there, hiding beneath the surface, that not even Granger and Weasley seemed to have noticed or uncovered.

Something in those somewhat unsettling green eyes had spoken to Draco; just like that night in the dungeons Draco felt himself been drawn towards the Gryffindor, and although he was loath to admit it, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Apparently there are some moments that you can't share without ending up with some form of connection, and evidently a life-saving experience is one of them.

Draco laughed out loud, and nipped those distinctly Hufflepuff feelings in the bud before he started wearing yellow and hugging people.

He rolled his eyes and heaved himself to his feet. Casting one last searching glance across the expanse of Muggle London, he turned on his heel and strode across the roof top, descending the creaking stairs and retreating to bed.

* * *

**Author's Notes: On an unrelated note, commiserations to my fellow Australians who have to put up with another three years of John Howard, and to my American brethren who, similarly, have to endure four more years of Bush. Ack! How depressing. Excuse me while I go drown myself.**

**No wait, before I do that, there is one more thing I have to say: a big, huge, gigantic THANK-YOU (it warrants capital letters) to everyone who has reviewed this fic. It means a lot to me to know that people are reading and enjoying it: ****Louise, GeminiDragon, Keyan, XxEvilRabidBunnyxX, Dot, Stardust   
****Memeal** – Ah, goddess as always. Don't worry about playing favourites – I do; of my two fics, this one is definitely my baby. This plot bunny came to me before the Gundam Wing one but I was hesitant about putting it down on paper (so to speak) and decided to ease myself into it, using Duo and Heero as a bit of a warm-up. I continue to be thrilled by your reviews for both fics; you make me blush and giggle like I haven't before. So, thanks (sounds trite but it's the best I can come up with).   
**Ashen Skies** – Indeed, what a coincidence – obviously great minds think alike. I think I can handle juggling Duo and Heero, and Harry and Draco, but I rather fear that study has gone to Hell in a hand basket. Oh well. I'm so pleased you think I've overcome the clichés; I do try, but I'm constantly worried that I'm just rehashing the same old stuff. Please continue to let me know what you think.   
**TeeDee**** – **thanks for indulging the urge to review. I appreciate it.

**OK, I'm done – thanks again. Oh, and please, please, please review again if you feel like it (or even if you don't). And for those of you who are also reading my Gundam Wing fic, now that I'm finally on holidays, I'll have some time to work on the next chapter and I hope to have it done and through the editing process by the end of next week, so stay tuned. Ciao!**


	4. Chapter Four

Title: Do You Trust Me?  
Author: Prynesque  
Genre: Yaoi/slash, romance, angst  
Pairing: Harry/Draco  
Rated: R  
Warnings: Potential (though unintended) OOC, some swearing, slash, alternating POV, possible Australian-isms.  
Feedback: Hell yeah? What I'm trying to say is that if you feel the urge to review, please indulge it. I don't even care what you say. Good, bad, it's all the same to me – just so long as I get to hear from you.  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy… they are copywrited to someone else. They are being used without permission and no money is being made. I reiterate: they aren't mine (and if you think they are you should probably take this opportunity to get your head checked). However, this story is mine and mine alone, and if you so much as think of nicking any part of it, I'll hunt you down and set my demon kitty cat on you (be afraid, be very afraid).  
Notes: This story is set following the downfall of Voldemort in Harry and Draco's final year at Hogwarts. This story is also slash (or yaoi or whatever you want to call it), so if you don't like that… well, bugger off and come back when you have some taste!

**Author's Notes: Well, well, well, what a start to the New Year I have had (please note, bitter sarcastic tone). You see, in early January I skipped happily off to the South Coast to lie on a beach and do generally decadent things (possibly whilst perving on the lifeguards), and normally the only thing I have to worry about is whether the person I've engaged to feed my cat has actually fed her or whether I'm going to arrive home to find her dead, emaciated body on my bedroom floor (yes, slightly morbid for so early in the year, but that's just me). But no, this year, it gets a whole lot better (more sarcasm – I'm on a role): the blurry bastards of this world evidently thought enough of me to break into my house, smash all my windows and steal all my stuff… twice. Yes, that's right, twice – as in, two sets of perfectly horrid thievses on two separate occasions (God or the Devil or whoever is in charge of this karma stuff really has it in for me). Now, I'm not trying to compare my misery and bad luck to other recent world tragedies, but you have to admit, it definitely feels like I'm cursed, doesn't it?**

**Anyway, the point of that little story (aside from trying to incite mass sympathy) was to excuse the tardiness of this chapter. When you've lost your computer (complete with all files and documents), stereo, TV, DVD player, video camera and priceless family heirloom jewelry (left to me by my grandparents), plus had your house majorly trashed by hooligans, it's safe to say sitting down and writing on your now non-existent computer is the last thing on your mind. **

**But you'll all be pleased to know that things are starting to get back on track and once my insurance company gets off their fat arses and replaces all my stuff, I'll be back on happy street (assuming such a street exists). In celebratory anticipation, I present to you "Chapter Four" (lovingly written on the library computers at uni – though much embarrassment was felt as I sat surrounded by stressed out people worrying over complicated PhDs while I umm-ed and ahh-ed over whether Harry and Draco should get to talk to each other this chapter). Oh, and in case you were wondering, no, the cat was not dead and emaciated when I returned home (in fact, I think she's put on weight – blurry thievses must have fed her!).**

**Anyway, enough of the blah, blah, blah, go forth and read (or multiply if that is more your thing).**

**.oO0Oo. signals change of POV**

**

* * *

****Do You Trust Me?**

Chapter Four:

The morning of the 31st of August dawned with a burst of pale sunshine that streamed through the gap in the curtains, teasing Harry into a semi-reluctant consciousness. The familiar sounds of the Leaky Cauldron waking up rumbled around him, threatening to lull him back to sleep; the broom of the cleaning witch scraping along the stone floor of the corridor, the distant buzz of voices breakfasting below, and beyond, the gathering hustle and bustle as Diagon Alley came to life.

Harry rather fancied that he would miss waking to this comforting routine. He tried to remember what waking up at Hogwarts had felt like. Dean and Neville usually woke first; the former was just naturally an early bird, whilst the latter was constantly afraid that if he didn't wake up early, he'd wake up late and that would be much worse.

Harry smiled faintly as he recalled the somewhat desperate measures that had been employed on occasion to try and get Seamus and Ron out bed. Once Dean had had the bright idea of using a localised rain spell to wake them up; unfortunately his calculations had been a little off and Professor McGonagall had not been impressed when the room ended up flooded with two feet of water.

The smile faded and Harry wondered if things would be same. He didn't even know if Dean and Seamus were returning to Hogwarts. Once the war had broken out, communications had pretty much collapsed. Owls were no longer sent for fear of interception and face-to-face meetings were limited for safety reasons.

Harry knew that Dean had disappeared back into the Muggle world; more particularly targeted by the Death Eaters, Muggle-borns had been advised to retreat to the Muggle world for their own safety and that of their families. The Ministry had set up a special department to deal with relocating Muggle-born families and placing wards around them. Harry supposed that Dean had probably gotten on with his life… he knew he would have if he'd had the chance.

Seamus had returned to Ireland as soon as Hogwarts had closed, as far away from the impending danger as possible. But other members of his family had remained in England; his mother and uncle had been members of the Order, their strangely cheerful accents echoing around the kitchen at Grimmauld Place on more than one occasion.

Harry had received the odd snippet of information about Seamus here and there but his mother had always been reluctant to speak about her son, her eyes always filled with worry and fear. A sudden sandy-haired vision flashed before his eyes; Liam Finnegan lying dead on a frozen battlefield, mouth open, eyes vacant. That had been at the beginning of the war… Harry wondered if the Finnegans were still grieving for their lost brother and uncle; he had heard very little about the family since the end of the war when everyone had gone their separate ways.

The only one Harry was confident would return was Neville. Although he hadn't seen him since the final victory, Neville had been a regular visitor at Grimmauld Place during the war and had always expressed a desire to complete his seventh year so that he could go on to an apprenticeship in Herbology. Neville was still wild about plants and whatever skills he lacked in other magical areas, he more than made up for in his dedication to and knowledge of botany.

Harry nestled back into his pillow and allowed himself one brief moment of indulgence in which a vision of life as it had been and life as it was blended seamlessly together; a vision where he woke in his bed in Gryffindor Tower and everything was the same, right down to Neville's snoring and Seamus' muffled sleep-talking.

He heaved a sigh; it was naïve of him to think that things could ever be the same… they would all have grown, changed. That's just the way life worked.

He swung his sleep-laden legs over the edge of the mattress, dragging himself out of bed in time to let the cleaning witch in. She seemed pleasantly surprised by the relative order of his room. Harry could only guess what she had previously encountered trying to do her duty to Ron's mess.

After breakfast, Harry ventured out into Diagon Alley with the others. It was crowded and he was tense as a result, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched; every witch or wizard he passed paused to watch him and he bowed his head to avoid their eyes.

He fell into step beside Ginny, allowing Ron and Hermione to outstrip them. They meandered slowly down the cobbled street, vaguely keeping an eye on the distant figures of the other two. Ron and Hermione weren't holding hands but they were walking close enough to each other that the backs of their hands brushed against the other's every so often.

Ginny chatted happily as they progressed through the crowd. She spoke cheerfully and rapidly but she never made any attempt to draw Harry unwillingly into her conversation. She always listened attentively when he did speak, though, and Harry found her company comfortable and soothing.

They were just drawing closer to Eeylops Owl Emporium when a gaggle of excited young witches veered across Harry's path, rushing across the street to gush over Madam Malkin's newly imported Parisian robes. As Harry swerved to avoid a collision, a flash of blonde in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He followed the movement almost unconsciously. The owner of the blonde hair disappeared into Quality Quidditch Supplies, but not before turning slightly to call out to a friend across the street. Harry's eyes trailed over the unfamiliar face, a strange feeling of disappointment rising within him.

"Harry?" Ginny asked, resting her hand on his arm.

Harry turned back to her. He could almost see the words 'are you alright?' forming on her lips. She caught herself just in time and the words she uttered were deliberately light and innocuous. "Come on, we'll lose Ron and Hermione in this crowd if we're not careful," she said brightly. Harry smiled and followed her through the throng.

The rest of the day passed smoothly in one long continuous stream of sunshine. An occasional cloud meandered across the blue expanse of sky but the light shone through the curling wisps of white, casting a dappled pattern on the city below.

In the afternoon they wandered out into Muggle London, aimlessly but enjoyably passing the rest of the day winding their way through the streets, lapping up the last burst of summer sun. Ron and Ginny had long since become familiar with the Muggle world but they still paused in marvel at the way Muggles had adapted to life without magic.

In Hyde Park, beneath the cover of a shady tree, they ate ice creams and watched a family of ducks drift across the glassy surface of the lake, leaving gentle ripples in their wake. Around them, small children laughed and played, enjoying their last moments of freedom before the new school year began.

A nosy-looking seagull approached them, its beady eyes watching and waiting. It crept steadily closer, edging towards Ron, peering at his half-consumed ice-cream cone. Another one appeared and then another until a small crowd had gathered, their tiny eyes following Ron's every move.

After about fifteen minutes, he finally cracked, leaping up and chasing them away. Hermione and Ginny laughed as the flock scattered with a unanimous squawk of anger. Ron flopped heavily back down on the grass with a satisfied sigh.

Two seconds of peaceful interlude passed before there was a fluttering of wings and the flock returned. Ron glared at them sulkily and this time when the girls burst into peels of laughter, Harry found himself joining in. The sound of his own laughter sounded strangely foreign to him, but he found that, for the first time in a long time, it was a more natural laugh, lacking the rather forced tone it had once had.

It was a good afternoon; gentle and leisurely… the sort of day when one could almost forget all the horrible things that lingered in the past, the sort of day when all that mattered was good fun, good weather and good company.

Even as they sat down to dinner that night, Harry could still feel the remnants of mirth swirling around inside him and half wished that they had more time to spend on days like that instead of leaving for Hogwarts.

George and Fred blessed the Leaky Cauldron with their presence and the dinner table was far louder and jollier than it had been the previous evening. Ginny regaled the twins with the story of Ron's battle for supremacy over the indomitable gulls, inspiring George to perform an impromptu but hilariously accurate impersonation of a hungry seagull. Beside him, Ron was frowning but when Harry peered a little closer he fancied that Ron was desperately trying to stop the corners of his mouth from turning upwards at George's antics.

As the meal drew to a close, Mrs Weasley got heavily to her feet, banging on the table to be heard. The loud thuds reverberated around the small parlour and chatter subsided as seven pairs of eyes swivelled around to rest on the family matriarch. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth. For the briefest of moments Harry thought she was going to launch into a long and probably dull speech. However, when she finally spoke it was brief and to the point. "Pack and then bed," she announced, her tone somewhere between a request and an order (though probably closer to the latter).

Ron opened his mouth to complain, but Mrs Weasley swung around and fixed her youngest son with a threatening glare, a look that promised dire consequences to anyone who dared to voice an opposition. Ron wisely closed his mouth again and meekly followed the rest of the group upstairs.

Hermione, as usual, was the first to finish packing. Her room had been far neater than anyone else's, which made locating all her belongings far easier. By 10pm she was all done and ready to go, her trunk neatly ordered and waiting by the door. She drifted across to Ron's room, leaning against the doorway to watch the frantic goings on inside.

When Ron suggested that she might like to help, she just cast him a very pointed Mrs Weasley-esque look; the sort of look that says 'well, if you'd been a bit neater you wouldn't be needing my help.' In reply, Ron gave her a rather pathetic look. Hermione rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue irritably but she relented and bent down to help.

She shuffled across the floor on her hands and knees, peering beneath any article of furniture that might be hiding a rogue article of clothing. As she passed him, Ron ducked down and pressed a brief kiss to her cheek. He moved away again, clearing his throat awkwardly but Hermione smiled to herself and stuck her arm underneath the wardrobe, locating a jumper that Ron hadn't even noticed was missing.

By 11, Hermione had finally had enough and had retired to bed, leaving Ron alone to struggle with his mess; the amount of swearing that drifted out of Ron's room increased dramatically following her departure.

Down the hall from Ron's muttered curses, Harry stood back from his trunk, finally satisfied that he had managed to find all of his possessions. As he had been packing his robes away, he had discovered the mirror that Sirius had given him during his fifth year.

He hadn't looked at it since Sirius' death; it seemed to represent everything that was wrong with his character, his impulsiveness, his reckless determination, his gullible stupidity. It was still wrapped carefully in its thick velvet cloth, shrouded from sight. For the first time in years Harry had been tempted to uncover it, to look at it just one more time. But when his fingers had caressed the soft material, a lump had formed in his throat and he closed his eyes, gently lowering it back into his trunk and piling things on top.

Harry shook his head and reached for his pyjamas. He could still hear Ron banging around in his room further down the corridor. Harry wandered slowly down the passageway and paused in Ron's doorway, sticking his head inside. Even hours later, Ron's room still looked rather like it had been the target of an air raid and Harry was greeted by Ron's cry of frustration, "Where the bloody Hell is my other bloody shoe?"

Harry grinned. "'Night, Ron," he called.

Ron looked up from the floor, a shoe in one hand and his wand in the other. "'Night, Harry," he replied, distractedly, peering under the bed again.

"Ron?" Harry asked. Ron looked up, aggravation etched across his face. "Your other bloody shoe is on top of the wardrobe," Harry finished, pointing.

Ron sagged and then laughed. "Thanks, mate!" his call followed Harry back down the corridor.

Harry changed swiftly and neatly folded his clothes away in his trunk before settling down in bed, lying awake in the darkness listening to Ron's continued efforts.

Finally after 12, even Ron went silent and all Harry had to listen to was the random creaking of the old building as it settled for the night.

Just before sleep came to claim him, he briefly considered going back up to the roof on the off chance that Malfoy might be there, but he slid into unconsciousness before he reached a decision.

The next morning was, thankfully, less frantic than usual, and by 9am Mrs Weasley had successfully ushered all her charges out onto the pavement, trunks in tow.

Fred and George sauntered up to bid their farewells. They winked at Harry and Ron and hugged Ginny. "Don't do anything…" Fred began.

"…we wouldn't do," George finished.

"Well, that doesn't rule much out," Hermione muttered. The Head-Girl badge pinned neatly to her chest caught the sunlight, twinkling merrily. The Twins scowled at it but wisely chose not to subject its bearer to the torment that Percy had once suffered.

Hermione looked somewhat relieved when they finally moved away, leaving her unscathed. She deposited the large wicker basket she had been carrying at her feet and set about hailing a couple of cabs, hindered rather than helped by Mr Weasley.

When two cabs finally pulled up at the curb, Hermione heaved a sigh of satisfaction and bent over to gather up her wicker load. It twitched ominously and, inside, Crookshanks protested his entrapment with a fierce yowl. The first cabdriver, a large, leathery bloke with grey whiskers and a cheerful grin, leapt back alarmed by the strangled cry that escaped the basket. Hermione laughed nervously and indicated the other luggage. The drivers cautiously avoided her as they carefully loaded the trunks into their vehicles.

Harry eyed Hermione and her restless bundle and when she and Ron clambered into the first taxi, he swiftly made a bee line for the second. Ginny joined him and they shared a smile. Harry perched Hedwig's cage on his knee as Mrs Weasley slid into the front seat next to the driver. She complimented him on a very neatly kept automobile and he blushed scarlet beneath his five o'clock shadow.

As the cab pulled away from the Leaky Cauldron, Harry glanced back, wondering whether Malfoy had left yet and how he was getting to Kings Cross station; somehow he couldn't imagine Malfoy deigning to hail a Muggle taxi.

The taxi weaved its way through the crowded London streets; at every speed bump and pothole, Hedwig would squawk indignantly from her cage. The cabdriver glanced back at her in his rear vision mirror; he seemed both nervous and curious as he surveyed his rather strange-looking passengers. Harry tried to smile reassuringly but winced when Mrs Weasley loudly muttered something about 'tappic lights'.

When they pulled up at Kings Cross Station, the first cabdriver was hastily unloading their luggage. He looked rather harassed and Mr Weasley was hovering beside him, beaming with enthusiasm. Hermione was wrestling with her distressed cat, while Ron tried his best to help without having to get too close. Both cabdrivers looked distinctly relieved when they were paid and allowed to leave.

Harry followed the Weasleys and Hermione through the train station. All around them busy people rushed to and fro as they tried to catch their trains on time. He could feel the strange looks their group were garnering. Pigwidgeon was attracting a considerable amount of attention with his incessant hooting and it didn't help that Mrs Weasley kept urging them on with cries of, "Come on, Platform nine and three quarters this way! Hurry up Ron or we'll be late!"

A young girl with blonde pigtails and a teddy bear clutched under one arm pointed at Hedwig in delight. Harry gave her a quick wink and she giggled, burying her face in the soft fur of her toy. Her gaze followed him right up until he finally disappeared into the crowd.

Mr Weasley paused at the entrance to Platform Nine and Three Quarters, trying to look subtle as he leaned against it casually and disappeared. Harry watched as each member of his group vanished from sight. He pushed his trolley forwards slowly, drawing up along side the gateway.

Suddenly his heart started beating rapidly and for the briefest of seconds he considered turning away and disappearing into the anonymous mass of Muggles. It would be so easy. He could just turn around and vanish and he needn't ever return. He wondered what the Weasleys and Hermione would do if he never came through that gateway, if he disappeared forever.

Before he could get too lost in his thoughts, a flash of blonde hair drew him out of his reverie with a jolt. Instinctively his head jerked to the right with a slight twinge of pain. He surveyed the seething crowd impatiently but the blonde was gone. Harry shook his head in bewilderment and, leaning forwards, disappeared after the rest of his party.

As soon as he reappeared on the platform and saw the familiar bright red steam engine, he couldn't help but smile. A steady stream of white smoke swirled around the scarlet train and then upwards to the dull blue sky above.

He was immediately aware that the bustling platform had fallen silent when he appeared. He could feel the stares on him, piercing through him, pressing in on him. A sudden wave of claustrophobia overwhelmed him and again he felt that urgent desire to run away and mysteriously vanish forever. _You're a Gryffindor_, he reminded himself, trying to summon some characteristic bravery.

He had just made the decision to press on through the crowd when Mrs Weasley caught him under the arm and herded him after the other three. The platform erupted in a cacophony of noise once more and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He still attracted the odd look or revered sigh as he loaded his trunk onto the train, but generally most seemed to keep their looks and their thoughts to themselves.

Harry and Ron had just finished hauling Hermione's trunk into one of the carriages when the platform fell silent around them once more. Harry could feel his face beginning to flush when he realised that, for once, he wasn't the one attracting all the attention.

He turned slowly towards the exit back to Kings Cross Station. Malfoy stood there, elegant in fine black robes, every single white blonde hair in place. He regarded the congregated wizards and witches with a cool, disinterested expression but for several moments he did not move; he seemed almost frozen, like an ice sculpture, cold and silver under the pale sunshine. Finally he blinked, and for the briefest of seconds, he met Harry's gaze in a simple acknowledgement of the other's presence.

Whispers broke out across the platform as Malfoy stepped confidently forwards, the trolley bearing his trunk and his owl trailing faithfully behind him. The crowd parted for him hastily, shuffling backwards as though they were afraid he would contaminate them, their faces marred with dirty expressions.

Harry felt Ron tense beside him and was relieved when Hermione appeared at their side and placed a hand soothingly on Ron's arm. Harry turned back and began to help Ginny heave her trunk onto the train.

He sensed Malfoy's presence before he saw the Slytherin. Twisting slightly as he pushed Ginny's trunk upwards, he subtly took in the figure beside him. Malfoy raised his wand and, with a flick of his wrist, coolly levitated his trunk into the carriage. As he replaced his wand, Harry caught his eye. Malfoy raised one eyebrow as he took in Harry's manual labour. Harry felt torn between the desire to smile and the desire to tell him to piss off.

In the end, he didn't have the chance to do either for Malfoy swept away, the horde of students and parents parting for him like the Red Sea once more. He tossed his head dramatically as he gracefully boarded the train. Harry watched the movement out of the corner of his eye while beside him, Ginny snorted, clearly disgusted.

Harry said goodbye to Mr and Mrs Weasley, hugging them each and letting Mrs Weasley kiss his forehead. She smoothed away his fringe gently and, smiling, told him to take care of himself. Harry blushed slightly, embarrassed but pleased by her attentions.

Harry boarded the train awkwardly, trying to emulate Malfoy's posture and failing miserably. Not for the first time, wondered how Malfoy managed to move with such poise and grace; following that, Harry felt about as elegant as a hippo on a catwalk.

He strode down the corridor, selecting a cabin towards the end of the carriage, and sank into the plush red leather seat by the window, breathing in the slightly musty scent of leather and wood. He rested his forehead against the cold window and watched as the platform outside slowly emptied. Mothers and Fathers hugged their children goodbye, holding them close before reluctantly letting go. One little girl, her dark hair in a braid, burst into tears, falling back into her mother's arms before allowing her friend to lead her back to the train.

Harry watched this display of affection and love with relative equanimity until he was distracted by the arrival of Ron and Hermione. Ron flopped into the seat opposite while Hermione sat herself neatly beside him. They bickered amiably for several minutes over who should get the window seat and finally Ron heaved himself up and they swapped places. Ginny peered into their compartment with a smile before disappearing off to find her friends, leaving the trio alone.

Harry closed his eyes, relishing the feel of the cold glass against his skin. Suddenly with a hiss of steam and jolt, the train start to move. He stomach lurched slightly at the familiar sensation and a tiny smile stole across his face.

On the other side of the cabin, Ron beamed. "Feels like going home, doesn't it?" he said, mid-grin.

Harry nodded, and it was true. The train pulled away from the station in a cloud of billowing smoke and for the first time in a long while, Harry felt excited.

Hermione smiled at them both and leaned across Ron to release her faithful feline from his wicker prison. He leapt out looking murderous and Ron shrank back into his seat apprehensively. Crookshanks stalked around the cabin haughtily, flicking his ginger tail in discontent before he finally settled next to Harry. He set about washing himself thoroughly, pausing every now and then to cast his gleaming yellow eyes around the compartment.

Ron rolled his eyes at the animal and settled his arm around Hermione, pulling her close. Harry relaxed back into the seat, his head falling sideways to rest against the window frame. The wood was smooth against his skin and within minutes the gentle rumble of the train lulled him to sleep.

Several hours later, Harry woke with a start. The compartment was empty save for Crookshanks who was busily playing with half a chocolate frog that he, no doubt, had appropriated from Ron. At Harry's movement, the cat looked up from his prey, surveying him imperiously through narrowed eyes.

Harry felt curiously lonely; he could hear the chatter and laughter of the other passengers up and down the train, and the silence of his own compartment seemed to exacerbate the feeling.

He reached across the expanse of seat between them and curled his fingers around Crookshanks' ear, tugging gently. The cat seemed caught between a desire to look peeved and a desire to purr. In the end, he simply sat there, content to do neither, tolerating Harry's interference with resignation.

Harry smiled faintly and then heaved himself out of his seat, setting off in search of company. The corridor was empty when he first emerged, but moments later a small group of young girls came hurtling around the corner; the little dark girl from the platform and her friend were amongst them. They looked up as they approached him.

They were first years; the emblem displayed on their chests was that of the Hogwarts Crest and they were surrounded by that same sense of excitement and nervousness that Harry had experienced during his first time on the Hogwarts Express. He cast his gaze over them. They were so small and innocent-looking. It was hard to imagine that he had ever been like that.

They giggled quietly as he surveyed them and Harry tried to summon up a smile to greet them with, but for some reason couldn't quite get his face to move into an appropriate expression.

In the end, the girls tittered once more and then disappeared into a nearby compartment, leaving Harry alone in the corridor again. He tottered down the passageway, swaying gently with the train's movement. As he reached the end of the carriage, something caught his eye. Blonde.

Malfoy was seated in the last compartment, his long legs stretched out in front of him, propped up on the seat opposite him. He was turned away, staring out the window and Harry could only just make out his reflection in the glass.

For several long moments Harry paused in the corridor watching the still figure. He didn't particularly want to talk to Malfoy and he made no move to open the door and enter, but he was vaguely expecting Malfoy to turn around and acknowledge his presence; he felt strangely peeved when Malfoy's eyes remained trained on the window. He waited for a minute longer and then turned away and passed through the door into the next carriage.

**.oO0Oo.**

Draco was being watched. He could feel it, that familiar prickly uncomfortableness of being observed. He didn't have to turn around to know that it was Potter; he didn't even need to look up to see the Gryffindor's image reflected in the window. Draco had long since accepted the fact that he could sense Potter's presence. It had always been like that, even in the very beginning. Something about Potter commanded attention, created a shift in a room's energy.

Barely eleven years old, standing in Madam Malkin's Robe shop, Draco had sensed something was different about the scrawny, messy little boy who presented himself for measuring, something that had compelled Draco to deign to speak to him.

He had felt a similar pull a month later on the Hogwarts Express. He hadn't even really wanted Potter's friendship, but there was something about the other boy that made Draco feel like he _should_ want it. He hadn't been prepared for the rejection that eventuated. He was a Malfoy and he had assumed that Potter would have known what that meant and would have fallen into line accordingly. But he had misjudged; the Malfoy name had meant nothing to the Muggle-raised Boy-Who-Lived. Weasley had recognised it though, and there was certainly no respect from that quarter.

Draco had resented that train ride for months afterwards, hating Potter unremittingly, until he realised that Potter was far more fun as a rival than he ever would have been as an ally. He was so quick to anger, so easy to taunt, to hate. And through his hatred, Draco's ability to sense Potter was finely tuned. In the corridors, across the Great Hall, on the Quidditch pitch, Draco could feel Potter's presence without even having to search for it.

Draco's eyes flickered upwards, finding Potter's reflection and for several long moments, he sat frozen, watching Potter watching him. He was half tempted to turn around and fix Potter with an appropriate stare but then he hesitated. The first move should be Potter's, he felt; after all, white always moved first on the chess board… _let him come to you_, a voice whispered inside his head.

He waited, expecting that any moment now Potter would slide open the door and enter. He prepared himself for that eventuality, mentally running through any number of responses to Potter's entrance, determined that he should be in control of any conversation that developed between them. In the window, Potter's reflection blinked pensively.

Draco allowed his focus to shift, gazing past the image in the window to the scenery beyond. Rows of thick, untamed gorse lined the train track, bustling past in a blur of yellow and green.

The slightly unsettling sensation of being watched was waning but by the time Draco registered this, his eyes snapping back into focus, Potter was gone. The glassy surface of the window now seemed strangely empty. A tiny frown settled on Draco's face, a sense of annoyance rising within him. It was one thing for him to ignore Potter but to be ignored himself?

He folded his arms delicately across his chest and sank back into his seat, staring morosely at the red leather head rest of the seat opposite. The white chess pieces had deferred their first move, and yet Draco couldn't help but feel that the game had already started. This left him feeling a shade uneasy, as though his grip on the reigns of control had been slackened ever so slightly.

The Hogwarts Express disappeared into a tunnel, plunging the compartment into darkness. Draco sat motionless in the gloom, struck by the unmistakable impression that none of this was going to turn out the way he had planned.

In fact, it was already heading to Hell in the proverbial hand basket, and as the train re-emerged into the sunlight, it dawned on Draco that returning to Hogwarts had the potential to turn out to be one of the biggest mistakes of his life (surpassed only marginally by his decision to take the Dark Mark).

The reaction he had received on the platform was still fresh in his mind. He had arrived knowing that any kind of positive welcome was beyond hope but that hadn't lessened the shock and the discomfort he had felt; the sheer force of hatred and hostility directed towards him had been almost staggering. It had taken all of his considerable strength to keep himself from turning tail then and there.

And since then, things had only gotten worse. Whispers and accusations followed him down the train and into his cabin. One young Gryffindor had even had the courage and stupidity to try and trip him up with a well-timed hex. It had been easily deflected, of course, the magic of a fourteen year old student was no match for a fully-trained Death Eater, but Draco couldn't help but wonder if he would spend the entirety of this year, surrounded by shields and dodging pathetic attempts at revenge from pint-sized attackers. It didn't seem like a very enticing prospect.

He had, rather naïvely, been hoping that once he was back at Hogwarts, everything would miraculously be the same again. He almost laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of such a notion. Nothing would ever be the same again… actions could never be so lightly disregarded, memories and emotions never forgotten; the dead would never rise again and a shattered world could not be restored to its seemingly pristine former-self with just a flick of a wand.

No, things had changed irreversibly and Hogwarts would not be the haven he had secretly been hoping it would be. _Why am I putting myself through this?_ He questioned himself silently. He wondered vaguely if this was supposed to be his penance. If it was, he decided, he could rather do without it.

About half an hour after Potter's strange appearance and then almost instant disappearance, the bubbly witch with the food trolley came bustling along. Draco was lost in pessimistic thought and only belatedly realised her presence after she had opened the door and jovially stepped inside. He looked up to acknowledge her intrusion and in that one split second, all colour drained from her face, leaving her pale, almost ashen around the edges.

For several minutes she stood frozen in suspended animation. Her mouth dropped open and then she squeaked with a mixture of fright and disbelief. The presence of suspected Death Eaters on her train was evidently more than she could handle and she scuttled away, her trolley rattling away down the corridor.

The sound of the trolley's clattering retreat into the next carriage was accompanied by a sudden loud, hungry rumble. He didn't bother chasing after her; it would be just his luck that he would escape prosecution for war crimes only to be locked up for harassing the lunch lady.

Draco rubbed his complaining stomach with dissatisfaction, allowing the glare that had been brewing for some time to creep onto his face. He settled back into his seat to sulk, something he was still rather prone to do when things didn't go his way.

The sun was just starting to sink in sky when Draco finally ventured out of his compartment in search of the bathroom. Still a considerable distance above the horizon, deep orange rays of light streamed in through the window, following him out into the corridor, warming his back.

As he made his way down the train to the bathrooms Draco tried to recall why it was that, in previous years, he had always been at pains to avoid the Hogwarts Express' toilets. He remembered the moment the door banged shut behind him, wrinkling his nose. Public toilets… such places were not meant for a Malfoy.

A voice from years past rang in his head, "Only fit for dogs and Hufflepuffs," followed by a laugh. The voice was Pansy's and as the words replayed themselves again in his mind, he fancied he could almost see her beside him, her nose crinkled in derision.

Casting his eyes around, he observed that she had been right, but he supposed that was little consolation to her now.

He left the bathroom as quickly as possible, lip curled in displeasure. He was halfway down the corridor when a door swung open in front of him and two boys came hurtling out. Draco collided with the first and he stumbled backwards into his friend who promptly collapsed beneath him; Draco had just enough time to recognise the Slytherin emblem on their robes before they both hit the train floor with a thud.

Two pale faces stared up at him, blank but for an unmistakable tinge of fear. A ripple of recognition lapped at his memory but it took him several moments to place the faces; they had been second years the last time he had seen them but they had matured significantly from child to teenager in the few short years since then.

Crabbe and Goyle had been terrorising them and ordinarily he would have just left them to it, but something had compelled him to intervene; it may have been those wide-eyed little faces, marked with anger as Goyle held their chocolate frogs just out of reach, or it may have been a desire to spoil the two older Slytherin's fun because their snoring had kept him awake all night… either way, he had stepped in, returning the stolen Chocolate Frogs to their rightful owners, keeping only one for himself as payment. The two boys had been overwhelmed with gratitude and awe and Draco had permitted their demonstration of this by allowing them to carry his bag for a week.

Draco noted, somewhat bitterly, that there was no gratitude or awe on their faces now, merely apprehension tinged with revulsion. He wondered if they even remembered that incident in the dungeons.

It was strangely disappointing to realise that he would find little welcome even from his own house. The only Slytherins that remained at Hogwarts now were those who had gone into hiding, rejecting the Dark Lord's call. He would receive no sympathy or understanding from them.

He cast the two boys an empty look and swept past them, his long robes brushing over their bare arms. They shrank away from him as though they had been stung and Draco could feel their eyes on his back, following him down the corridor and into his compartment.

He sank down spiritlessly into a seat. "This was a mistake," he admitted to the empty cabin. He waited, half excepting some sort of agreement to be uttered, but none came.

He closed his eyes and when he woke, the sky outside was as black as he felt. In the distance, tiny lights grew closer and the train began to slow down as it pulled into Hogsmeade Station.

**.oO0Oo.**

Harry was halfway down the next corridor when a familiar voice called out to him. "Harry!" Ginny's sleek red head appeared in the corridor a moment later.

"Hey, Gin, have you seen Ron and Hermione?" he asked as he stepped up to her.

"Still in the Prefect's compartment," she replied. "I just left there. Hermione looked like she was settling in for the long haul. She's either going to be a very good as Head Girl or a complete nightmare." Her crooked grin was accompanied by a barking laugh from within the compartment. It was a laugh he remembered well and left him feeling simultaneously relieved and nervous.

"Come in?" Ginny asked, beckoning to him hopefully. He approached cautiously and she smiled gently, holding the cabin door open for him.

Three very familiar faces looked up as he entered, pausing mid-conversation. Seamus laughed that unmistakable laugh again, the sound seeming to fill the entire cabin. "Well, here's a sight for sore eyes," he proclaimed with a smile.

Physically, Seamus hadn't changed much at all, his sandy hair perhaps a little longer, falling into his eyes as he smiled, but he seemed more sedate than Harry remembered. There were still shades of the hyperactive bundle of restless energy that had once bounced around the Gryffindor common room, still elements of that manic quality that had always amused Harry, but it was augmented by the sort of steady confidence that comes from just a few extra years of lived experience.

He still possessed that irrepressible Irish optimism, that happy-go-lucky charm that seeped into all those around him. That infectious spirit was something Harry had always associated with Seamus and he was relieved to discover that a fierce war and the loss of an uncle hadn't dampened it irreparably.

"Good to see you again, mate," Seamus exclaimed enthusiastically. Harry shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, unsure of how he should behave. The questions that lingered behind Seamus' smile made him tense. "How have you been?" Seamus continued.

"Let him get in the door before you bombard him with questions," a second voice interrupted. Dean was seated on Seamus' right, beside the window. He radiated a calm steadiness; it was a quality that Harry had always admired. The quieter one of the two, as a teenager he had often been mistake for the shy-type, whereas now he merely seemed like someone who had decided that he didn't have anything to say at this particular moment.

While Seamus still basically looked the same as he had at 16, Dean had grown taller and broader. He looked wiser, more mature, but not old; when he smiled there was still a boyish sense of excitement about him. In many ways, he was the complete antithesis of his fair friend, but they seemed to compliment each other; a perfect working combination, much like his own relationship with Ron and Hermione. From the comfortable way he and Seamus were sitting, knees touching and shoulders turned in towards each other, Harry could only assume that they had kept in contact during the war.

Ginny nudged him gently from behind, patting his shoulder comfortingly as she brushed past him and sat down beside Seamus. Harry exhaled slowly and then shuffled forwards to seat himself beside the lone figure on the right-hand side of the cabin.

He met Neville's gaze comfortably, returning the other Gryffindor's gentle smile. Neville looked the same as he had the last time Harry had seen him, still slightly round but definitely more comfortable in his own skin than he once had been.

Harry remembered the conversations they'd had, hidden away in strange, empty rooms at the top of Grimmauld Place. During the war he had always felt that Neville understood him better than anyone else, even Ron and Hermione; he had enjoyed those brief moments of connection, words that had been spoken that seemed to ground him when he felt like disappearing into himself.

"Hi, Harry," Neville said softly as Harry sat down beside him. "Alright?"

"Hey, Nev," Harry replied, nodding. "Alright." And that was the extent of their conversation. In the end, that was all that was needed. Harry could feel Seamus and Dean watching them, slightly incredulously, while Ginny was just smiling.

"D'you sleep well?" Seamus asked a minute later, breaking the moment. "We called past earlier but Hermione made us leave so we wouldn't wake you up," he explained. There seemed to be a whole lot more that Seamus wanted to say, but hadn't quite worked out how to say it. Any minute now, he was just going to blurt it out, Harry felt sure; he could feel the impending discomfort.

Dean laid a hand gently on Seamus's arm, halfway between a warning and a restraint, and instantly Seamus reacted, relaxing back into his seat, content to give up any queries that had been plaguing him. Harry felt a sudden gratitude to them both; to Dean for recognising that now wasn't the time, and to Seamus for accepting it without question.

Harry smiled as the conversation re-ignited around him. It seemed to be mainly about Ron and Hermione, shifting from their roles as prefect and Head Girl to their relationship and back again. Seamus, in particular, seemed delighted by the extra ammunition provided for teasing Ron.

The sunlight momentarily caught the silver Prefect's badge displayed on Ginny's chest and Harry found himself wondered whether Malfoy was still a prefect. He hadn't been wearing the badge but then, come to think of it, he hadn't been a particularly good prefect.

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by the compartment door gliding open. He looked up to see Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil hovering in the doorway.

Lavender smiled around the cabin, sweeping one hand through her long hair; she was prettier than Harry remembered but there was still a strangely vacuous quality about her.

Of the two, it was Parvati who drew Harry's gaze. She was still beautiful in that dark, striking way, but when Harry peered closer, he fancied her skin was paler than it had once been and there were faint shadows lingering under her eyes. She moved with an unmistakable aura of grief.

And that's when Harry remembered. He didn't know how he could have forgotten; it hadn't even been that long ago. In the dying stages of the war, Death Eaters had raided a Muggle-born owned shop in the Wizarding district in Manchester. Parvati's twin sister, Padma, had been caught in the crossfire. She wasn't the first victim that Harry had had a somewhat personal connection to and Harry tried to remember whether he had even shed a tear when he had heard of her death.

He felt instantly guilty. Parvati's eyes found his and for several moments they just held each other's gaze. Harry found himself feeling extremely uncomfortable. Those eyes were haunting. Did she blame him? It wouldn't be the first time. Shortly after the end of the war, Harry had been at the bar in the Leaky Cauldron when he was approached by an elderly witch. She blamed him for the death of her son, for failing to kill Lord Voldemort in time to save him. Her voice, her sobs, still plagued his dreams sometimes.

Harry swallowed heavily. Words lingered on his lips but refused to be spoken; he wanted to tell Parvati that he was sorry, he wanted to apologise for not being able to save her sister, but more than anything, he just wanted to break away from her tortured gaze.

Finally, she cocked her head to the side slightly and offered him a sad little smile. Harry felt the relief flood through his veins; he felt slightly dizzy. He summoned all the strength he had and returned her smile, trying to pour as much understanding and compassion as he could into that one simple expression.

Parvati dropped her eyes to the floor of the compartment, the smile still lingering faintly on her lips. She linked her arm through Lavender's, shuffling closer to the other girl.

Lavender had been joking with Seamus but she reacted the instant she felt her friend's arms slip through her own. She smiled radiantly around the room, uttering goodbyes, before gently guiding Parvati back out through the door.

Harry followed the movement with his eyes, glad that Parvati had someone to turn to. He had always considered Lavender to be, well, rather blonde but she was obviously more perceptive than he had ever given her credit for. He supposed they all were now. War does that to people.

Ginny smiled and got to her feet lightly. "I think I'll go with them," she said, taking her leave. "I'll see you guys at the feast."

She disappeared and for a brief second there was a strange moment of tension between the remaining four. Eventually Neville and Dean fell back into conversation, with the odd bizarre interjection from Seamus.

Harry smiled internally, and looked past Neville to the scenery beyond the window, content to let their gentle chatter wash over him and bear him away to Hogwarts.

* * *

**Author's Notes: Well, that's it – obviously all my umm-ing and ahh-ing came to nought as Harry and Draco didn't get to talk… but next time, I promise you some quality interaction (not _that_ sort of interaction! – see I know you were all thinking that because you've got pervy little minds like mine). Anyway, if you made it all the way through and enjoyed it, please drop me a line to let me know. In fact, if you made it all the way through and hated it, or even if you stopped after the first paragraph, I'd still like to hear from you. Come on, you know you want to… and don't I deserve a treat after suffering all that robbery-related anguish?**

**Anyway, speaking of reviews (and I was, in case you had other treats in mind – though, I wouldn't say no to that lifeguard right about now), a big, whopping Thank You to all my reviewers. Love you all very muchly.  
Spamy, deb-sampson, JWGrey, Alora, Ravenfrog, Linda, chisox727, woof, crimson release, desolate03, Corinna, qinghao, Lauren, superkid, SarahE-517, LeMoN LiCkEr 69****  
Lykaki – **Oh my! insert blush every so often I get reviews that simply blow me away and reduce me to a silly, giggling mass of delirium and yours, my dear, was one of those. I'm absolutely thrilled (Yay! Yippie!) that you like my fic. I humbly thank you and promise not to stop writing any time soon (if the loss of my precious computer Thoth cannot stop me from writing, nothing can – except, perhaps, death, but I'm not contemplating that in the near future).  
**Memeal – **Ah, yet another one who's reviews alone could inspire me to write a whole chapter. I love the way you read my fics and pick up on the details which sometimes even I miss. Plus, it's always nice to find someone else who tires of the whole gimme, gimme, gimme Christmas vibe that our societies seem to have going. Though, thankfully, Christmas is a far distant memory (even if I'm still trying to work off the calories) – now I can look forwards to Easter. Cheers again, my dear.  
**Shinigamideathgirl – **Ah, another Alan Rickman obsessive… we should form a fanclub (actually, I'm sure someone's already thought of that). And like you, for me, it's the voice – a voice that could launch a thousand ships, send shivers down the spine of the steeliest person and incite mass drooling. Mmmmmm clears throat Um, sorry. Thanks for reviewing (both this fic and my GW one), I'm glad you like them. Oh, and John Howard might be doing an OK job running the economy (ignoring his shameful lies about interest rates) but that won't do us much good when he's destroyed public health and education. Glad to hear you're a member of the anti-Bush brigade, though.  
**Tiamatorin – **Right, well I shan't beg for reviews any more… actually, I can't make that promise. Besides, I'm glad my begging induced you to review… amid the one-liner reviews, there is the odd gem, like yours which is constructive and gives me something to think about, or others which just make me beam. I've thought about joining a couple of MLs but I've never really had the time. Anyway, thanks for reviewing. And I'll try pleading instead of begging from now on.

**Well, that's all… I shall be off now. Take care now!**


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